Thorin's Defeat
by kkolmakov
Summary: The King's ardour and passion have ebbed, and Wren leaves to save the remnants of her pride and to find herself anew. She is on the road again, out of the stone cage, and she remembers how much she loves such life. Will meeting a dashing rogue make her forget what kept her in Erebor all these years? First half set during Chapter 4 of "Thorin's Spring" *No Infringement Intended*
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: And here we go! Remember, you asked for it yourselves :D Thorin will appear in the second half of this story, but before it there will be plenty of Wren's memories and dreams for you to still feel close to our grumpy King and enjoy some steamy action :P**

**The first chapter is identical to A Word A Day #41, the second is AWAD #42 but I added the ending, don't miss it :)**

**Welcome everyone who started following me in the last few days and those who left their reviews for the first time! I love you all, my darlings! And yes, I am always very affectionate towards my readers, beware :D**

_The story takes place in the Vales of Anduin, after BoFA the lands are inhibited by Northmen united under the rule of Beorn. It happens during Wren's fourth Spring in Erebor, when pushed away by Thorin's neglect she leaves for four months and ends up in Bree (see "Thorin's Spring" Chapter 4), but before that…_

You push the door of the inn, pulling the hood lower on your face. You are drenched, cold rain water trickling from your cloak. You approach the innkeeper and throw the money on his desk. "A room for a night, Master Dwarf?" You nod and pick the key he puts in front of you. Thick leather gauntlets and lined gloves hide the size of your hands.

You are dressed in male Dwarven clothes, dark red trousers and tunic, light chainmail, doublet, all hidden under bright blue, fur adorned cloak, the only difference is that you are wearing light comfortable boots up to your knee. But you have found over years that people see what they want to see. You turn around to head upstairs when a tall hard body clashes with you.

You peek from under the hood. He is indeed very tall, lithe, a mop of dark brown hair. "My apologies, honourable Dwarf," the man has a strong Northern accent. You give him a small bow and start walking around him. "Hey, Godnorian!" A local, large and obviously inebriated, pulls a Dwarven ax from a scabbard on his belt and takes a wobbly step towards you two. "You owe money, you scum!"

Two more step from a wall, and the Gondorian chuckles. "My chances here do not seem very fair, my dear sir, three against one," he has a husky fruity voice, with a slight drawl in it, and you have a better look. High cheekbones, chiseled lines of a jaw and chin, brilliant dark brown eyes, and a smiling mouth, strong line of lips, the bottom one full and sensual.

"I am certain even Master Dwarf over here would confirm that is not how business is done in here in the North of Rhovanion."

You take a step away from him, obviously showing that you have nothing to do with him, and he laughs loudly and merrily. The frolics rolls out of him openly, and white teeth gleam in the dim light of the inn. "Well, well, the widely known Dwarven reputation to always let other races sink in their own mire, as I can see, is indeed true." A couple of Dwarves sitting at a table by the wall jump on their feet.

You think with regret that as peppy and buoyant as he is, he will not live long to enjoy it. You notice a long bow on his back and a long one-hand sword in a scabbard. The clothing bears no markings but you have a feeling that if there were any it would be the White Tree on the green banner of the Rangers of Ithilien.

"And the Northmen under the rule of the honourable Skin-changer Beorn, will you not help a humble traveller, or you are still drowsy after the winter sleep?" He is laughing even more, and the rest of the people in the inn rise on their feet. You momentarily think that if this is his attempt to end his own life, he has chosen a vastly complicated approach. He could have just jumped off a cliff or on his sword. Less fuss, and less trouble for others.

The Dwarves rumble some swearings in Khuzdul, and the Northmen make a step ahead. "Don't touch this filth, he owes me money!" "He is ours now," the Dwarves pull their wide swords out of sheaths, and you see a white toothed grin on the Gondorian's face.

Several of his opponents make a step ahead at the same time, and you see that a young red-haired Dwarf places the first punch. The Northman standing closest to him oomphs and bends in half. His companion roars and lunges on the Dwarf.

You start backing off and somehow you end up near the wall with the Gondorian by your side. He looks down at you. "Not sharing the desire to cut my throat, Master Dwarf?" You are too preoccupied with looking for an escape route to answer him.

At that moment a Northman lunged at you with a growl, and you duck to evade his giant fist. The Gondorian catches him across his forearms and cuts him down under his ankle. He gives him a strong and decisive punch into stomach, and the heavy body crushes on the floor. "If I were you, my friend, I would either start fighting, or get out." He flashes his white teeth at you again and then jumps on the stringer of the stairs. He grabs the rails and with an easy grace throws his lithe body over them. Another leap, and he is swinging from a chandelier. With a forceful swing of his long legs he throws his body to a tall sill. The window leads to the roof, and you understand that it is the only way out.

Only a half of fighters in the inn notice his absence, and they are busy evading the punches from the other half. You run up the stairs and try to reach the window as well. You are not tall enough, and then his curly mop shows up in the window again. "Coming, Master Dwarf?" He stretches his arm, and you grab his hand.

He jerks you, and you hang on one arm. The hood falls back, and his eyes widen. "Give me the second hand!" You pull yourself up, grab his hand, and he pulls you through. When your upper body is already out of the window, you push from the sill with you foot, and the momentum throws you on him. He falls on his backside on the roof shingles. You are in his arms, and he is looking at you with a warm smile.

"Well, isn't it my lucky day? It is like finding a pearl in dirty river sand!" You push away from him and jump on your feet. You hear loud screams from inside, and some of the fighters tumble outside. You sprint across the roof, and he follows. You two slide and slip, jumping from roof to roof, crossing the small settlement, and then off the roofs you jump into the tall grass and run into the woods.

After a few minutes of vigorous jog, when the voices and lights of the settlement are left behind, you lean on a tree and try to catch your breath. He stops in front of you. He is obviously scrutinizing you. You assume he already knows who you are. You are not far enough from Erebor not to be recognized. Your hair and small stature are well known in these lands.

He straightens up and stretches his palm to you, "What is your name, fair maiden?" You looks at him askew. "Are you jesting, honourable sir?" He hikes up striking dark brows. He has magnificent eyes. You shake your head. "You are obviously not from around here." He laughs. "It is my first travel so far North. It seems I have been right not to venture in these lands previously. The climate does not agree with me."

You shake your head again. There is something endlessly charming in his ways, but you still remember that you lost money and a chance for a nice warm bed for this night because of his rascal ways.

"Have a nice continuation of your travels, honourable sir," you give him a small bow and start walking deeper in the woods. You can always climb a tree and spend a night on it. You have done it before, though you suspect the last four years of comfort and luxury might have spoilt you.

"Wait, you are going the wrong way! The road is there!" He points at the opposite direction. "Good day, honourable sir!" You continue strutting when you hear him catching up with you. It is not hard since his legs are so much longer. "Allow me accompany you at least. These lands are not safe." "Thank you for you offer, but I have to refuse. The least safe place in these lands is the closest to you." He chuckles. "It was just a misunderstanding."

You hum and continue walking deeper into the woods. He chuckles again and stops. You smile, he finally gave up. "At least give me your name, fair maiden." "Good day," you throw across your shoulder. "The name!" He is going to wake up the whole forest. You turn around. "Why? You will never see me again." He presses his palm to his heart, "I will keep it as a precious memory." You hesitate, but then you think, you will never see him again, and the last thing you need is for him to boast somewhere that he spent a night in the woods with a small redhead, only to later find out it was the azyungel of the King Under the Mountain. "It is Thea." He gives you a ceremonial bow. "I am honoured to meet you, my lady. I am Amrod." "And good night to you, honourable sir." You turn away and start walking.

The next morning you are splashing cold water from a small stream on your face when you hear a rustle behind you. You pull your sword out of a scabbard you placed by your elbow, and then you see him. He is leaning on a tree and smiling. "Good morning, lady Thea." He is dangling a food basket on his index finger, "Breakfast?"


	2. Chapter 2

You straighten up and push your sword back into its sheath. His posture is relaxed, and you gently prod your magic. You do not possess much gift but whatever you have allows you to see in the hearts of men if they do not purposefully try to close them from you. The heart of the Gondorian is pure and kind. So is his wide smile.

You sigh. You are very hungry after all. "I will accept your offer, honourable sir, if you promise me the food is not stolen." The dark thick brows jump higher, and he chuckles. "Then you will have to stay hungry, lady Thea." You shake your head.

You are sitting on a fallen tree, he is on the ground, immensely too close to your knee. The pies are excellent, and so is the cider. You are eating in a surprisingly comfortable companionship. He has elegant long fingers and exceptionally good manners for a vagabond.

"So what does an erstwhile Ranger of Ithilien doing in the Vales of Anduin?" You pop a slice of apple in your mouth, and he stops chewing. And then he turns his face to you, swallows and gives you a wide smile. "How did you know?"

"The accent, the facial bone structure, the bow, and that," you point on the scar on his forearm, his sleeves rolled up, "is from a Haradrim sword." His laughing eyes are roaming your face. "And how do you know that, my lady?"

You put another slice of an apple into your mouth and give him a closed lipped, sly smile. He shakes his head. "You are a mystery indeed, my lady. Dwarven clothes, a Dwarven sword, the royal forgery no less," you lift a brow, and he smirks, "I know my weapons. And besides all, you thought I should know who you are, honourable lady." He leans back on the log, and his face is very close. "So who are you, oh glorious lady Thea?"

He has remarkable eyes, warm and astute, unusually dark, deep brown colour, framed by thick black lashes. "I am just a traveller, just like you, kind sir." He smirks and clanks his flask to yours. "Fair enough. And where is it that you are travelling to, my lady?" "East," you are not being purposefully vague, you honestly do not know where you are going. You know what you are running from though.

Something must show on you face, as he suddenly pats your knee with his large palm. "Something tells me you do not like the climate in these lands either." You nod. And then ask yourself why you are so open with him. You look at him from a corner of your eye.

His posture is relaxed, one leg bent, another stretched in front of him. Long green cloak, brown and green attire, reminiscent of his former service, but bearing no markings, no banners, no Kingdom. "And where are you heading, my lord?"

He snorts. "I am no lord." "I am only returning the favour. I am no lady either." He turns on his side and supports his head on his hand, elbow on the log near you. "You are wearing an expensive attire, new boots, from Dale, if I am not mistaken, and when you bent to the stream a silver ring on a chain fell out of your collar. What does it tell us?"

You press your palm to the ring hidden under your clothes. It is a heavy silver band bearing a Dwarven rune, a simple but dear token of affection from the King Under The Mountain. You heart clenches. That is the affection that is no more, his love has passed, and you are sitting on a log with a stranger, lost and confused.

You shudder and look at the man beside you. His eyes are warm and candid, and you immediately feel better.

"It tells us that I am a person who still wants to know the answer to her question," you give him a pointed look. He is gaining time, rummaging through the basket. He pulls out a slice of honey cake, wrapped in paper, and places it on the log.

"I cannot say I have a specific destination in mind, wherever the road takes me," he unwraps the cake and then licks off the syrup that got on his long index finger, "East sounds rather nice at the moment," he gives you a cheeky grin.

You look at him in surprise. "Honey cake?" You lean down to pick up a piece, when he pushes his body up from the ground and his face is an inch away from yours. You gasp, his expressive walnut eyes are inviting, gleaming with mirth.

"Are you a free woman, lady Thea?" His voice is lower, seductive. You know what he is asking about. "No, I am not." He flops back on the ground, seemingly not disappointed at all. Then he breaks off a half of the cake and throws it in his mouth. "I am still heading East though."

You are staring at him baffled. He is chewing and takes a drink from his flask. And then he notices your expression. He chuckles and moves closer again. "I am sure your Dwarven lover will miss you." "No, he will not," and then you bite your tongue. He is so easy to talk to that you forget all caution. He is pondering it. "Then he is fortunate that you are so honourable," and then he picks up your hand and presses his lips to your knuckles. "And not fortunate that I am not."

And that is when you start laughing. "Do you honestly presume me so simple as to believe that you are to follow me in my travels?" He is still holding your hand, and then he curls his fingers and swirls their tips, caressing your palm.

"Yes." You laugh harder, pretending to be unaffected by his touch and the candid tone of his husky voice. "And what have I done to deserve such sudden loyalty? I am not your Queen, and it is obviously not for my beauty that you have suddenly decided to throw your allegiances to my feet."

He laughs and flips your hand. The second large hand covers your open palm, and you think you should not be allowing it. And yet you do not take it away. "You do not believe yourself beautiful?" He is only holding your hand, but you feel furious blush spread on your cheeks and under your collar.

"Of course not," you see him slightly shake his head. "Has not your beloved told you how exquisite you are?" The thought of your King shakes you out of his enchantment, and you jerk your hand away. "I would repeat it every day." He is smiling and his eyes slide on your neck and collarbones. You feel warmer and exhale sharply.

"That would make you the worst of liars." He laughs loudly, white teeth and crinkles in the corners of his dark eyes. And then he leaps on his feet. "In fact I think I will start right now."

You are staring at him in complete astound. "Oh magnificent Thea," he jumps on the log he spreads his arms wide, "oh the delicate flower of the North! Your petals are white as snow, and yet light and life run through your delicate features! Your lips are red and inviting, asking for caresses, waiting for a man who would forever bring a smile on them! Your eyes are as green as the leaves of Greenwood the Great, and golden as the sweetest of honey in the markets of Dale! You are the elegant harmony of refined delicacy and vibrant strength! Believe me, oh splendid maiden, my heart is aching and my mind is in torment, as you are as unattainable to me as the stars, shining as bright as your eyes, and the pale moon, that shares its translucent light with your skin!"

He stops and peeks down at you. You are looking at him agape. Then he flops on the log and smirks. "What do you think, my lady?" You blink. "I think that would be endlessly tiresome to listen to every day."

He is laughing so hard that he falls off the log backwards, on the ground, his long legs swinging in the air. After a few moments of unrestrained merriment he folds his hands on his chest and looks at you in mock distress, the corners of his lips turned down as if mournfully. "And yet it is all true. I am in agony, my lady."

"It is called tormina, happens when you eat too much pie. Or if the pie you consume has been stolen."

"You are twisting the knife in my heart with your mistrust, my lady." You get up and shake crumbs off your clothes. He is still spread on the ground, glossy chestnut waves splayed in the grass around his head.

You pick up your cloak from the ground and clasp it on your throat. Your long walking stick in your hand, you swing your backpack over your shoulder. And then he stands up and you remember that he is so much taller than you. In the last four years you became accustomed to look men in their eyes without having to lift your face. He is towering above you, but without being imposing, his presence light and comfortable.

"Take me with you East, my honourable maiden," there is a small gentle smile on his lips, and you smile back. "The road is for everybody, my kind sir. That is the beauty of it, you are free to choose any you want." And then you turn around and start walking. He hastily picks up his pack and in a few quick strides he catches up with you. Your steps align, and side by side you set East.


	3. Chapter 3

The fire is crackling, and the two of you are sitting staring at it, wrapped in your cloaks, your shoulders touching. He always seems to be slightly too close, his hand brushing yours when he is walking along you on the track, leaning to your ear when talking to you, watching you starting the fire over your shoulder. You do not defy it.

He is humming a soft tune, and you recognise a song you heard when serving in Gondor. Soldiers you treated in the infirmary run by your mentor, Aldacar, called it "No Roads Here." It tells a story of a young boy in Ithilien who picks up a bow from the body of his fallen father, Haradrim arrows having pierced the bodies of his mother and sisters. The look in Amrod's eyes is distant.

And then he shakes his head, and his usual bright smile returns onto his face. "So, my lady, what is it like inside the Lonely Mountain? Are the walls indeed made of gold and trolls are bridled to pull the wheels of a giant mill?" You snort. "That is the most preposterous thing I have heard in my life."

He half turns towards you. "No gold on the walls?" He sounds disappointed, like a ten year old boy who learnt that the fireworks had been cancelled. "And no trolls. There is indeed a giant mill but it is run by water, as any other mill."

"Diamond stairs?' You shake your head. "A dragon chained in the dungeons?" You start laughing. "Is that what people tell about Erebor?"

He shrugs. "Well, noone has been inside beyond the visitorss parlours. People always talk of something they know nothing of." "Who says I know anything about the dungeons and mills of Erebor?" "You just did yourself." His eyes are sparkling with light teasing.

You lean back into the log behind your back and possibly closer into his shoulder. You feel his gaze on the side of your face. "Erebor, as splendid as it is, is just another city. With people, rushing on their daily errands, women busy with house keeping, children playing, men in forges." You close your eyes.

A city ruled by a dark and unyielding King, his brows frowned and lips pressed tight. Those lips used to smile to you, eyes gleaming with the warmth that you were the only one to witness… You do not let yourself linger on the thought. It is too early, too raw. It has been two weeks since you fared goodbye to your King, and as your feet were taking steps on the road leading away from him, you managed to contain your pain and your love for him in a small corner of your heart. You pushed your torment at the very back of your mind, needing to reign your emotions first to later reflect on them calmly and somehow pick up your shattered pride and devastated heart.

You open your eyes and see Amrod attentively examining your expression. "Something tells me you do not hope to return to the splendid city of Erebor." You stare at your hands. "If I am called back I will return at the very first possibility." You leave the thought that you have very little hope for such call to come unspoken. Somehow you are certain you both understand it without proclaiming it outloud. "And if you are not?" "Then I will continue my travelling." "Is it not the best kind of travel?" His long fingers lie on yours. His voice is soft and full of reverie, "Nothing but a road ahead, new bed every night, or no bed for that matter," you chuckle, and he goes on, "Endless sky above, grasses and woods on the sides on the track..."

You turn and look into his smiling eyes. "No walls, no restrains..." And then you join in and in a surprising unity you two pronounce, "No cage..." The moment is strangely stretched, air around you two still and silent, his dark eyes gleaming, and he leans in. And then you remember yourself.

You jerk away and exhale sharply. For a second his eyes are distressed, and then he smirks. "Surely there are some marvels in Erebor that kept you there. How many years have you spent in the Dwarven dwelling?" "Four." "Four?" He lifts his brows, "Four years in a stone cage? That is quite a man to keep you there, my magnificent lady." "Who said it was a man who kept me there? It might have been a service or some other obligation." None of you believes your objections.

He moves away slightly. Not enough for his body to stop being pressed to yours at least in two spots. You are conscious of his warm hip adjoined to yous. "And what sort of service would that be, my lady? You hardly look like a seamstress." You chuckle and shake your head. His eyes sparkle with glee. He just came up with another entertainment for himself.

"Embroideress? Wait, do not tell me!" He picks up your hands and turns the palms up. His warm long fingers explore the pulps of your fingers. You should be taking them away. "Hm, no needle prickles. Cook?" You bite a lip to suppress the smile. "Not with your fire starting talents." Your hands are in his, so instead of a smack to the back of his head you slightly kick him. He catches your foot under his long leg and presses it into the ground. And continues the exploration of your hands.

"Slight colouring here," he strokes the palm, "Cobbler?" You snort. "Right, idiotic assumption. Hands too soft..." He is quite obviously feigning pensiveness, his thumbs stroking the centers of your palms in gentle circular movements. The sensation is hypnotizing, and you take a long deep breath in.

"Baker? No… Candle maker? Hm, no burns… Obviously not a chambermaid and not any other help. Winegirl? No, he would not allow…" Your body jolts, and you pull your hands away. There is an impish gleam in his eyes. "Am I right to assume that your lover was of noble blood? Considering this," he points at the silver ring that at some point slipped out of the stand-up collar of your velvet doublet. "A Dwarven rune, pity I do not speak their secret language. I would at least know the name of my so far victorious rival." You hide the ring under your garments again.

Amrod stretches on the ground, his head slipping on the log as a pillow. His cheek is almost pressed into your hip. He looks at you, dark lashes laying feathery shadows under his eyes. In the fluttering light of the camp fire his features are even more striking, high cheekbones, a full sensual lower lip, stunning jawline.

There is something you want to understand. "Are you that generous with every skirt you encounter? Because it seems such a waste to spend so much time and eloquence on a pointless pursuit of an accidental travel companion." He smirks. "Surely, you do not need to try so hard when it comes to women. I am certain lasses throw themselves at you in every village. Why all the labour?"

He laughs. "You do not think yourself worthy of the effort?" "No, I do not, but it is not the point of my question. Is it the challenge that is exciting you? I am not attainable, is that what makes you so grandiloquent? Or are these your general ways? To be honest, I would think that would be exhausting..." You are looking down at him.

He folds his arms on his chest, "Will you believe me if I tell you that I have never met a woman like you? A woman that would entice me and enthrall my heart from the first look at her flaming locks when the hood fell of her face revealing features of an outlandish spirit instead of a bearded Dwarf that I expected? Would you believe me if I said I am enamoured and mesmerized like a boy and want to unveil the mystery that is you, my splendid maiden of the North?" His mischievous smile clashes with the ardent tone of his voice.

"No," you are adamant, and he laughs. It is loud, open, roaring laughter, his mouth wide open, head thrown back, tendons standing out on the strong neck. You suddenly imagine pressing your lips to his throat, and then recoil and blanch from the thought.

"Well, then I will just go to sleep," as you have predicted from the start, he rubs his cheek to your hip, "And after all, my lady, why do you ask if you do not believe?..."

He does not get to finish his answer when the first arrow hits the log near his head. He pushes you on the ground and covers you with his body. The second one whooshes and is set deep in the ground near your head.

"The third one will be sticking out of your head, Gondorian, do not think I am jesting," a gruff voice comes from the woods, and a Dwarf steps out from the shadows. You feel Amrod's hand slide on your hip. You jerk and then realize he is trying to reach your sword. His is still on the ground near the fire. You grab his hand.

"Get up, Gondorian, not the time for a love tumble. Although," the Dwarf smirks, "You might want to enjoy it one last time, at least some of your parts might not survive tonight. I am in an especially foul mood."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: This is the last chapter without King Under the Mountain in it! Memories, flashbacks and dreams full of the cantankerous Dwarf are coming! :) And plus there is always the second, Thorin-centered half of this story. I have such delicious predicaments planned for the King :D**

You wrap your leg around Amrod's and roll him over in a trained movement. The only reason you manage to shift his weight is that he does not expect you to possess such fighting skills. You jump up at your feet and straighten up.

The Dwarf's mouth falls open, and you lift your chin. He lowers his weapon and bends in a low respectful bow. "Khazad Bahinh," _The Friend-lady of the Dwarves, _throaty sounds of Khuzdul scratch at your heart. You bestow him with a bow in response. "Norin, son of Oli, it is an honour to be introduced to you, my lady." "_The honour is mine, Master Dwarf,_" you answer in Khuzdul, and his face is momentarily surprised. And then he regains his composure and bows again.

"_Forgive my meddling in your affairs, Master Norin, but what are your grievances with the Gondorian?" _ The Dwarf throws a disdainful look at Amrod. _"He owes me money. The man lacks all honour. He promised to deliver a cargo for me and failed to. He is dangerous," _the hint of a question of the nature of your association with the Man is hidden in the Dwarf's last remark. You jerk your chin higher. The shadow of Thorin Oakenshield's power is behind your back, and you shield yourself with it.

"_The Man is employed to my services, his name is under the protection of my word of honour," _you do not mention the King and only hope that your name would suffice. The Dwarf gives you another low bow. You peek at the Gondorian. He is sitting on the ground, his eyes darting from the Dwarf to you. You also notice that he is sitting much closer to his sword now. The Rangers of Ithilien are excellent fighters, stealth and swift. _"Has the cargo been returned to you, Master Dwarf?" "Not fully, part of it sank in the river. He refused to pay the difference, blaming it on the Orcs that attacked him. He even wanted to retain the part of payment claiming damage," _the Dwarf snorts in contempt. You once again ponder how Men and Dwarves can conduct any sort of trade at all, with such different understanding of the laws of exchange. Each of them obviously thought himself completely in the right.

"_If the Gondorian pays you the equivalent of the lost cargo in silver, you would obviously be satisfied and forget your vexation, honourable Dwarf. Am I right?" _The years of sitting at the King's councils gave your tone the necessary assertiveness. There is no possibility of a negative answer in your question. There is a command veiled in it though. You can see the Dwarf clench his jaw, but then he nods slowly.

You turn to Amrod. "Would you be so kind, gracious sir, as to pay this honourable Dwarf the difference for his lost cargo and finally settle this unfortunate incident?" Again, there is no room for a refusal in your tone. Amrod gets up on his feet and hands a pouch with silver to the Dwarf. You internally sigh in relief. Had he not had the money, you would have to offer to pay out of your pocket. Either of the men could have refused that to happen.

The Dwarf demonstratively counts the coins, and you see Amrod's hands clench in fists. You lower your eyes and see that his sword is now lying across his boot clad foot. One movement, and he will kick it up, catch it in his hand, and you will have to deal with a sword fight.

"Although you are probably in a great hurry, Master Dwarf, would you join us at the fire?" From the corner of your eye you can see the Gondorian giving you a disbelieving look. He does not know Dwarves at all. "I thank you for your generous offer, my lady, but I am indeed in a great hurry. I am expected in Erebor in two weeks time."

You exchange ceremonial bows and, after a short hostile nod to Amrod, the Dwarf disappears in the woods. You turn around and shove the Man, pushing his chest with your hands. "What sort of aggravation are you constantly in? How many others will come out of the woods and try to kill me for the sole reason of sitting with you at the fire?!" You shove him again.

He lifts his hands in a mock defeat. "You oaf! Dimwitted, thick skulled oaf! Have you not gotten any understanding of Dwarven trade customs?!" You poke his chest with your finger. "And what other races have you managed to enrage? Will I see goblins sneaking up to us at night to cut off my head? Have you failed to deliver something for them too?" He is laughing and takes a step back. "How did I manage to end up tangled into this?!" And then you halt. You are suddenly terrified. The rumour might spread, the King might find out. You were seen on a ground, entangled with a Gondorian, at night. You grab your head.

He steps ahead and puts his hands on your shoulders. You are too distressed to bother. "Thea, look at me," his voice is soft and earnest, and you bring yourself to look at his face, "Thank you, you saved my life." You take a deep breath and exhale, reigning your emotions. "As little as I know you, I suspect you would have weaseled your way out of this predicament on your own." He chuckles and then pulls you into his embrace. Your first impulse is to relax into his body, but then you push him away.

He gives you a slightly apologetic smile, "Do you fear that it will become known to your lover? Being seen with me here?" You bite into your bottom lip and nod. "Then I am twice as grateful for your help. I will not forget it," he picks up your hands and presses them, enveloped in his large palms, to his chest. "I am in your debt now."

You have already overcome your distress, and you feel irritated again. "Mahal help me, does it mean I will never rid myself of you now?" He laughs, "I am afraid not. Not until I repay my debt," he kisses your hands. His lips do not press to the knuckles, but to the fingers. Somehow it feels so much more reprobate, "And even then I do not think I am leaving you, Thea..."

You push him away and return to the log. You sink on it and hide your face into your palms. "It is not my name. I lied." He sits near you, his shoulder pressed into yours once more. "And what is your name, fair maiden?" "I have many..."

_Zundush, kurdu, azyungel, nulukh..._The King's deep voice echoes in your head, the memories of loving monikers and passionate murmurs flooding your mind… _My little bird, my heart, my love, my moon…_

The Man is scrutinizing your face. "Any you prefer?" You shake you head. "Wren will do." "Wren?" His brows fly up, "Like a small bird?" Your heart clenches, you cannot stand another man calling you thusly. "I changed my mind, I do not like any of my names now."

"Then I will give you another one," his eyes roam you face, and he smiles, "Alfirin, the White Flower of Gondor. White and delicate." You look at him, and a strange foreboding grasps your heart. "What a horrible name! This flower is called _simbelmyne _in Sindarin_, _they grow on the burial mounds of Rohan." He smirks, "I am sure it is a different flower. They are those merry gentle flowers that grow by the road where I grew up." "Do not argue with me, I know herbs!" You frown.

"Oh your disdain is even more appealing, Alfirin," he is murmuring, and you clench your fists. "Do not call me that! I do not wish to be called thusly!" "Are you going to be so delightfully enraged every time I am to use your new name, Alfirin? It is just a funny little flower to be used in a flower crown!" "It is a flower of death!" "It is a different flower!" "Do not argue with me! I am the healer in here!"

You bite into your lip, and a wide smile blooms on his face. "Oh I see now… A healer! And I was so certain it was a cobbler!" You smack his shoulder, and he is laughing. You lift your hand again, and he catches your wrists. And the he pulls you into a kiss, and you do not start fighting it for an instant. Or two.


	5. Chapter 5

You think of the King's kisses and push the Gondorian away. He immediately moves away and looks you in the eyes. "Do not dare ever doing it again," your voice is stern, but you both know that you hesitated. He smiles, "Somehow I knew that such would be your will, my lady. I decided to snatch at least one kiss, before I am rejected forever." You are frowning. "Never again, do you understand me?" He presses his palm to his chest, "Never again," and then he leans, and you can see every single black lash, "Until you explicitly ask."

You are holding your breath. But you already know that he smells of the forest air, and his kiss tastes of the cider he was drinking. His is not scorching fire, overwhelming and charring you to your bones, but an intoxicating freshness of spiced wine and the first bite into a succulent flesh of an apple. He smiles and then gently taps the tip of your nose with his index finger. If he expects you to cry out "I will never ask for it" in indignation, he is wrong. You know that such promises are too easy to break.

The next morning you wake up from the first song of a mourning dove and look at the man sleeping near you. Each one of you is wrapped in their own cloak, and when you were falling asleep there was a two foot distance between your bodies. He is now lying on his back, his bent leg touching the edge of your cloak. His face is relaxed, and you see a thin string wrapped around his fingers. It goes around your small camp, unnoticeable if a person does not know where to look. You recognize a trick employed by the Rangers of the South. You wonder what made him leave the service. You do not even know if they are allowed such freedom. Has he deserted his brothers in arms to wander the roads and gallivant his way through the lands?

The chestnut eyes open, and he gives you a sleepy smile. And then he stretches, his long muscular body arching, eyes squinted from the physical pleasure of muscles and tendons flexing and straining. Then he jumps on his feet, and with a cheerful hop he proclaims, "Good morning, Alfirin! Shall we have breakfast in the nearest settlement? I am certain I have never been there before. So, the chance of us being thrown out of the inn is rather low." You chuckle and then take his stretched hand and allow him to help you get up. He might be pulling a bit too hard, and you stumble into his lithe body. He is smirking down at you, and you remember your dream from last night.

_You are in Erebor, in your bed, luscious sheets under your body are wet, sticking to your back after a few hours of strenuous sexual exploits with the King Under the Mountain. You are lying across his spread body, your head resting on his abdomen, your fingers intertwined, he is lazily twirling a ring on your thumb. "I consider it fortunate that you are so short for your race, zundush..." You seem to have been nodding off, and your eyes fly open. "Pardon, my Lord?" "The height difference, it would be very inconvenient… How do Men of Gondor even perform the act we have just partaken? That would cause serious injuries..." He looks very pensive, and you giggle…_

You do not remember having this conversation in actuality. Yet it seems so real, the King's velvet voice content and sated. You look up into the dark eyes of your companion, and you are stricken by the astonishing feeling of ease and equality to the Man towering over you. The King in your dream was wrong, there is nothing inconvenient in the height difference. He is not imposing, not threatening, a man can be of the same height and still make you feel small and subdued. And you look at the strong neck and the full lower lip.

He must see something in your eyes that you are not aware of, because he dives in and presses his lips to yours again. The second kiss is equally chaste, just closed lips pressed to yours, and it is equitably blameworthy. This time you do not push him away. His hands are locked behind his back, and you feel him smile into your lips. You take a step back.

"You promised not to do it again," you are standing in the middle of the camp site and watch him start packing your belongings. He gives you a radiant smile over his shoulder, "I am a liar." "One more, and I will leave," your tone makes him turn around and look at you attentively. You see him open his mouth, undoubtedly to make a joke, probably that it is a worthy sacrifice, but he meets your eyes and presses his lips together. And then he nods. You are certain you will never have this discussion again.

You do get thrown out of the inn. At least this time you get to finish your meal. A patron is rudely grabbing the barmaiden, Amrod interferes, although you have to admit he is not the first to throw a punch. You two tumble out of the inn, and he bobs a pouch with silver in his hand. It obviously belonged to the drunk that they are currently dragging unconscious out of the tavern. Amrod has astonishingly light touch and deft fingers.

You open your mouth to chastise him when he suddenly starts walking towards the back alley behind the tavern. You follow him, and he turns into a dark corner. There are shacks hastily made of scrap woods and tree branches there, and he pushes two fingers in his mouth and whistles. A dirty disheveled head of a child around seven years old sticks out of the nearest shack. Amrod throws him the pouch and then quickly grabs the filthy collar. "If I find out you did not share with your mates, I will come back." The boy nods, a wide white toothed smile on his face.

Amrod grabs your hand and pulls you out of the alley. You follow him, constantly looking back. "Those are children! Do they live there? Do you know them?" He looks at you from the corner of his eyes. "I have never been here before, remember? But there is always a back alley like that in any village. You out of all people should know people bring children into this world without care." You are silent and let him lead you through narrow streets.

He leads you to a hill overlooking a river, and you two sit down on on his cloak spread on the grass. "Are you an orphan?" He is lifting his face to the Spring sun, his eyes closed, and you are staring at his jawline. "I had a very contented childhood, my parents were prosperous and died of natural causes several years ago," there is a small reserved smile on his face, "No one was brutally murdered in a Haradrim attack. Nothing tragic, if that is what you inquire about, Alfirin." He is leaning back on his elbows. "Then why?" "Why I helped those children?" That you understand, you seem to be grasping his essence more with time passing. He is a rogue with no desire for material goods, nothing to restrain him, nothing to cage him. Whatever comes, comes, and he lets it go as easily as he accepts changes.

"Why did you leave the Rangers? Why are you constantly trying to get yourself killed?" He turns to you and opens his eyes. For the first time since his body slammed into yours in the inn, they are serious. "Why did you leave Erebor? And why did Master Norin was treating you as if you are a Queen?" You are silent. He nods and goes back to enjoying his sun.

You lie back on his cloak and stare at the white clouds running through the sky. "He does not love me anymore," your voice is quiet, and you feel him stir near you. "And I always knew it would happen, but it still hurts. And I had no reason to stay anymore. But I will return to him as soon as he calls." He is silent for a few moments.

"And Norin?" His voice is raspy. "The name on the ring," you press your palm to the velvet concealing the band, "is Thorin." He is contemplating your words. "As in Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, King Under the Mountain?" His voice is full of disbelief. You suddenly feel peevish.

You turn your head and look into his eyes under frowned brows. "You have been praising my beauty and allurement all these past days. And now you are surprised I would manage to capture the heart of a King?" "I do not doubt your worth, but a King… Is he not to marry a noble Dwarven maiden and make little chubby heirs to the throne?" You face contorts in pain, and he grabs your shoulders and pulls you in. You bite into your bottom lip and taste blood. You will not cry.

You allow him to hold you, and then you try to move away. But he does not let you go, and his large palm lies at the back of your head. The second palm strokes your back, up and down, and something shatters in you. You wrap your arms around his middle and bury your face into the leather of his coat. Your shoulders start to shake, but tears do not come.

You have been carrying this fear for so long in your heart that the pain of the imminent abandonment has become the part of you. And it is dull and unsurprising now that the loss is finally here. The King was never yours, and losing him does not feel like a wound. It feels like a finally arriving death from poison that has been circulating in your blood for years. You are sitting quietly in the arms of your companion, his long fingers stroking your hair, and there is no hope in your heart.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Yes, they do have coffee in Middle Earth, I checked :D They drink it in **_**The Hobbit**_**.**

_You are pushing the heavy body of the King away from yourself but he does not yield. "Thorin, stop, please..." You cannot breathe, your heart is throbbing in your throat. "Stop, you brute!.." His hands mercilessly slide under your knees, and you shriek. You are kicking, and he is laughing. "Stop tickling me, you brute! Oh no, not my feet!.." You squirm out of his hands and jump off the bed. He leaps ahead and grabs you around your waist. He is kneeling in front of you and buries his nose into your stomach. You are laughing too and turn in the circle of his arms. You are trying to pull out of the trap of his grip, and he uses the opportune moment to bite your buttock. You are falling on the floor, at the last moment he twirls his wide body, and you land on him. You settle on his naked chest, propping your head on a fist. He is relaxed, eyes merry, dark strands splayed on the floor. "What are you plans for today, my Lord?" "I think I will just stay in bed, I am not faring well..." His brow is lifted suggestively, "I think I need a healer to examine me..." You bite the hard muscles of his chest, and he guffaws. Then you start sliding lower, trailing hot kisses, occasionally licking the scorching skin. You hook your fingers on the waist of his breeches, and he lifts his pelvis. "Did you not have a company of visitors from Dale to greet, my Lord?" You press a kiss to the tip of his member, and he chuckles throatily. "I am certain they can wait… That on the other hand..." You chuckle as well and close your lips on him._

You open your eyes and stare at the bleak light of the morning falling on the dreary landscape around. You are warm, and you bury your nose deeper under the cloak. And then you realize that Amrod's cloak is thrown over yours as well, and you inhale the smell of his skin. It is nutty, spicy, but fresh.

He is sitting in front of fire, whittling, his brows moving funnily, the tip of his long narrow nose twitching in concentration. You see it is a small figurine of a bear, it is rather nicely done, its body is bulbous but strangely proportional and small ears are merrily sticking out from a round head.

Amrod feels your gaze and turns his head. He gets up with his usual sunny smile and approaches you, "Morning, my lady." "Morning," you start climbing from under your cloaks, and your leg gets tangled in the fabrics. He turns to help you and since his hand is occupied with his craft he just throws the bear into the fire. You make a distressed sound. He lifts his brows.

"Does nothing have any value for you?" You are so frustrated that you voice is ringing. He chuckles, "Someone needs breakfast. Come," he pulls your foot out of the trap of the cloaks, "I made coffee, and we still have your seedcake from yesterday."

After the breakfast is finished, you start walking. There are two days left before you reach the Misty Mountains. There is one last inn before it, and you are hoping to spend the night in it. The lands are much safer, now that Beorn has become the Great Chief of the Vales of Anduin. The passages of the Ford of Carrock and the High Pass are open again, and you are hoping to cross the mountains without harm. Your step is light, and you are lost in your thoughts.

Eight years ago somewhere on this track your King was leading his company to the Lonely Mountain, not knowing what lay before him. You remember an evening in front of the fire when his head was resting on your lap, a comb in your hand. _You are tending to his strands, drying after a bath, and his eyes are closed. He is telling you of the battle between Stone Giants they have witnessed in the mountains. His deep voice is calm, but you feel irrational fear, and your palm lies on his shoulder. You are terrified, there were so many battles in his past, any of them could have taken his life, and you would not have met him. Through the open collar of his tunic you can see white scars covering his chest. Your palm slides on them, and your fingers trace jagged white marks. You notice that he has stopped talking, and the blue eyes are attentively peering at you. You smile to him, "I am only happy it has come to pass, and you are safe now, my King." He catches your fingers and presses them to his lips._

Amrod catches your hand and intertwined his fingers with yours. You look at your gloved hands in surprise. "Come back here, Alfirin, you will stumble and fall if you do not pay attention." He is right, the land becomes more and more uneven.

Suddenly he pushes you in the shrubs by the road and presses his palm to your mouth. You stare at him. "Shhh," his face is close and you see his eyes are sharp and cautious, "Stay here." He pulls his hood on and disappears. You are astounded, it is as if he vanished in the thin air. After a moment you recover and carefully crouch out of the bushes as well. You cannot see him, but again he is a Ranger of Ithilien. They are impossible to spot. You crawl to the sidehill cut of the road and peek down.

There is a group of Orcs moving through the valley below. They do not see you yet but they will come to where you are very soon, the narrowing valley not allowing them another path. You feel Amrod's presence behind your back, your magic ringing alarm, and you turn to see him pulling an arrow out of his quiver. You grab his upper arm.

"You are not going to shoot, are you?" "I told you to stay there," he licks the feathers on the fletching. "It is murder! I understand self-defence, but it is cold blooded..." He gets up in his impressive height, and the first Orc falls on the ground with Amrod's arrow sticking out of his eye socket. Three more follow, and they finally understand where the assault is coming from.

He manages to kill two more until they finally reach the side hill you are on. He scoots in front of you, "Stay here," he is hissing through his teeth, "I mean it this time." He gets up again and sends two more arrows precisely into his targets. He has three Orcs left to deal with, he jumps out of the bushes and pulls his sword out of the scabbard. Two are small, but the third one is an Uruk, his shoulders broad and the face more shrewd. You push yourself up and pull your sword out of the sheath.

His step is light, and his lunge is confident. He slides under the short crude sword of the first Orc and slices him across the middle. His elbow hits the back of the falling opponent, and the narrow Gondorian sword slices across the throat. The black blood rushes on the ground. The second one jumps on him, and Amrod swirls bringing the weight of his body on one foot, while second one pushes the Orc away. The tip of the Uruk's sword misses his shoulder by inch, and your sword pierces the neck of the taller Orc from behind. With a gurgling he falls on the ground, his body convulsing, and you swirl, pulling Mudikh out, the Dwarven King's first sword familiar weight in your hand. Both your blades enter the body of the last Orc at the same time, and he falls.

You are catching your breath. Amrod picks up his arrows, cleans his blade and turns to you. A storm of emotions is playing in his eyes, and that is when you hit him across the face. The punch is unrestrained, and you are shaking in rage. "These were unnecessary deaths! We could have hidden in the bushes!" You see his jaw is clenched, the thrill of the fight still rushing through his blood, and he grabs the back of your head and presses hungry lips to yours.

You push him away and lift your hand for another blow. He straightens up in front of you exposing his face to another punch, and you stop. An angry red bruise is blooming on his cheekbone. "Unnecessary deaths..." You step back and sway. He supports you and takes your sword out of your hands. He cleans it and pushes it down into the scabbard. You are standing over the dead bodies. The Orcs are monstrous, and you feel tears running down your face. A life is a life. And you have taken two today.

"We need to go, Alfirin," you ignore him. "Alfirin..." "I know you think me naive. But I am not. I know of the terrors they are capable of… I know of the masters they serve, and of the deaths they bring..." He comes to you, and his long-fingered narrow hand lies on your shoulder.

"I do not think you naive, my flower," he wraps his arm around your shoulder and pulls you away from the corpses. You two start walking when you hear him murmur, "Wondrous and noble perhaps, but not naive."


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: I am sorry, my lovelies, but I seem to be completely incapable to write anything but Amrod these days :S No Word of A Day fics, no modern AUs, no Thorin smut that I usually drabble in a spur of a moment through my day and later utilize in my stories! Only dark-eyed hunk with long sensual fingers and endless legs and narrow hips! Don't throw rotten veggies at me, please! :( **

**Write me gentle reviews and PMs instead :) **

**All your prompts are kept safe and will happen when my ardour for the King Under the Mountain is back. And the second half of the story is Thorin centered, remember? :)**

It starts raining by the time you finally reach the inn, and you take a table by the fireplace. You are starving and between you two the chicken seems to be disappearing very fast. Amrod has mesmerizing relationships with food. He can seemingly go on without any substance for days, which stuns you, after living among the always ravenous Dwarves for so long, but when he finally eats he can consume astonishingly copious amounts of food. He has delicate manners and thoroughly enjoys his meals, his elegant fingers picking up pieces of meat. He drops his head back and pops a piece of bread in his mouth. "That is the point of traveling in bad weather, is it not? Finally sitting down by the fire?"

You hum and take a sip of your wine. You are cautious, you tend to get fuddled very easily, after just a glass. He takes a big gulp, licks his bottom lip and looks at you. "Tell me of the King Under the Mountain." You look at him in surprise. "Pardon?" "King Under the Mountain, Thorin Oakenshield, what is he like?"

You put the glass on the table. "What a ludicrous topic for a conversation for the two of us!" He leans back in his chair and smirks. "Tell me about him, and I will tell you why I left the Rangers." His eyes seem very dark in the light of the fire, and you feel your cheeks burning. The temptation is too big.

"What do you want to know?" "How did you meet?" "I was visiting Erebor with a company of merchants and got lost in the halls," you take another sip to hide behind your glass. He narrows his eyes. You guess it is not that easy to lie to him. You sit straighter in your chair. You are not lying after all, you are just omitting some truth. "And then?" "And then we met several more times, and as time went by we…" You think back at those days and smile. "We did not realize another one returned the feelings, and then one night we just could not deny it anymore."

He is pondering you, and then he puts his elbows on the table, links his fingers, his body and the heat it emits so much closer to you. You fight the impulse to move back in your chair. "And how exactly has it transpired between you two? Have you yelled it into his face?" You blink. He is not that far from the truth. He chuckles. "You are indeed a marvel, Alfirin. As ignorant as I am in Dwarven ways, even I know that they do not bed women of other races. And that they do not bed women before marriage."

They do not. Either of these two things are unheard of among the Mountain dwellers, and yet the King broke both of these rules that night. Your cheeks burn harder, from the wine and from the memories.

The Gondorian chuckles again, "That good was it?" You take a big gulp of wine to silence the memories of the King's caresses. "And then he took you into his city?" "Not exactly," you give him a sly smile, "I made him wait three moons for me." The Gondorian laughs, "You are a wicked woman, Alfirin. Let him know the flavour and take the treat away. He must have been livid." You think of the greeting you received when the King came back for you, and it is suddenly hot in the common room of the inn. Amrod is smirking knowingly.

"Not so innocent and noble as I thought then?" "It was not a ploy! He needed to be certain!" He is pouring himself more wine, and for a second you think his face grows solemn. "I am sure he had been certain long before it." You think of your first kiss, months before that night, and you clench your fists. And then you think of all those myriads of kisses that followed. And then you brace yourself as you know what comes next.

The pain of abandonment clenches at your heart, cruel, piercing, humiliating... The cold bed, the hurried absent-minded attentions you have received the past few months, meals unshared, your usual walks together discontinued… You have become a commodity, a source of counsel, a half-forgotten trinket… You clench your teeth and look into your glass. It is empty.

The Gondorian lifts the jug but you shake your head. "Has he started treating you as a piece of furniture?" He looks at your over the rim of his glass, eyes brilliant and gleaming with mischief again, and your temper flares. "Why are you asking me all that?" "A good scout always surveys the tract before venturing into a hunt." "Am I a prey for you? A prize?" "You, Alfirin, are the most precious and desirable of prizes," his voice is low, seductive, and you frown. "And what if I do not wish to be a prize?" "Is it not better than a piece of furniture?"

And then you chuckle. Whether it is the wine, or the warmth of the fire, but you suddenly feel merry and at ease. "No, it is not. How is it any different? Is it not always the same story with men pursuing a woman? First we are a treasure, cherished and pampered, and then the treasure is used as a door stop." He snorts. "Fair enough," he places his hands over yours on the table, "But would you not want to enjoy the beginning of this journey again? To feel like a treasure and not a door stop?" He is laughing at you, but you are not offended. "No," you slowly shake your head, "I want..." You do not know what you were going to say, and you shake your head harder. The curls escaped your braid in the wind and rain of the road, and they bounce around your face.

"What do you want, Alfirin?" His fingers are stroking your palms in the already familiar caress. "I want peace. I want to cease feeling humiliated and rejected, I want to find a nice place to stay, perhaps open a small infirmary, accept patients, deliver babies..." He laughs, "That sounds endlessly boring! Why would you want to attach yourself to the same spot? Were you not caged for four years in dark, cold halls of Erebor?" You were, but you had a reason to stay. There is none anymore.

"Do you know what you really want, Alfirin?" You lift a brow. "You want to dance!" He jumps on his feet and pulls your hands. You press your heels into the floor, "No, I do not..." He is so much stronger, and you suspect if you continue fighting it he will just pick you up, your bum up, on his shoulder. He is dragging you to the front of the common room, where they are a few musicians lazily strumming their instruments. Amrod throws them a generous handful of silver, and they rejoice. A clarinet and a flute join in, but you are still hesitant.

He smirks to you, and you know his next move is coming. "Wine for everyone!" He yells, and the whole inn cheers. The music erupts exuberantly, and several couples jump on their feet. He pulls you into him, and his palm lies on your waist. He lowers his face, and his eyes are laughing, "Yield, Alfirin, and make merry!" You press your lips together but the smile bursts out of your control, and you put your hand into his large palm. The long warm fingers close over yours, and he twirls you.

The rhythm carries you two, he is light on his feet, and the inn claps in accordance. The steps are simple, and your heart is exuberant. He is moving gracefully, leading you, twirling and spinning you where he wants, and you submit, a merry laugh escaping your lips. He picks up speed, his hands strong and body graceful. He picks up your second hand and you two are spinning, holding each other hands firmly, arms straight, and you drop your head back, trusting him to catch you if you fall. The room is spinning around you, and you feel more alive than you have in months.

He sharply pulls you into him, and you are pressed flash into his hard body. The dancers bounce around you two, spin and twirl, and you are staring in his eyes. The pupils are enormous, hiding the dark brown, and the large palms cup your face. You close your eyes but the kiss does not come.

The rhythm is throbbing in your throat, whether the exuberant music, or your own heart, and you feel long forgotten thrill reverberate through your blood. And then his lips are on your neck, on the pulse, and you exhale sharply. His warm breath caresses your skin, and you are still. The lips move up, to the jaw, your lips tingle in anticipation, and then he lets you go. You feel a sudden emptiness in front of you and open your eyes . He took a step back and is looking at you with a strange expression. There is no smile in his eyes, and he is pale.

And then he turns around and strides out of the room. You are frozen in the center of the floor, patrons swirling around you in a dizzying rhythm, and your heart is beating painfully in your chest.


	8. Chapter 8

You leave the common room, and through the open front door you see his tall figure on the porch. He is standing, his face lifted to the night sky, arms folded on his chest. You have a choice, to go upstairs into your bed, and come up to the man outside. The moment stretches, all your muscles tense, almost painful, fists clenched, and you push your body and approach him.

"Amrod?" He exhales and turns to you. His face is serious, brows frowned, but the eyes are soft, almost wistful. Your eyes roam his face, and for once you feel you can just ask. "Why did you leave?" "I did not want for our dance to continue." He is not talking of the swirling to the music. Your courage runs out, and you lower your eyes. You cannot bring yourself to ask for more explanation, and mournfully notice that the pain of rejection and the feeling of your inadequacy that you thought could not grow greater are so much more acute.

You can feel his eyes on you. "Would you have stopped me had I continued?" You bite your lip, "I do not know." "Would you be thinking about your King in my embrace?" You jerk and shrink away from him. You know that the answer is no.

"That is why I stopped, I do not wish to be a replacement to pacify your pain, Alfirin," he smiles softly to you and then walks inside, his palm gently patting your shoulder. You are staying at the porch and just like he did a moment ago you look into the dark blue depth of the sky.

"Alfirin," you turn around. He halted in the doorframe, and his face is solemn, "Had it been another woman, I would not have stopped." And then he disappears inside.

You wake up in the narrow inn bed and stare at the ceiling. You think back at the villages and settlements you have passed. From each one of them you would send a short letter to Erebor informing your King of your location and of the path you were to take. You doubt he even opened them. Have they been stuffed in the furthest drawer of the King's escritoire? Are they gathering dust on Balin's desk?

_The King rushes in the room, his arms wrap around your middle and he picks you up, swirls you around, and you laugh into his happy face. "Oh I have missed you so, zundush," he greedily presses his lips to yours. He is covered in the dust of the track, his hair almost seems to have more silver in it, and you laugh harder. "I think I can hear sand crunching on my teeth, my King. You need a bath." He bites on your neck. "If I sit into warm water, I will immediately fall asleep. I have not had a single proper night of sleep in this cursed trip." You stroke his face, enjoying the feel of the thick beard under your fingers. "Has the snoring of your warriors been keeping you awake?" He pulls you closer, crushing you into him, and you embrace him no less fervently. His lips are at your ear, "I need your body near me to sleep, zundush..."_

You go downstairs to the common room and find Amrod drinking tea. You take the chair in front of him, and he gives you his usual wide smile. "Morning, Alfirin." "Morning," you take a cup from his hands. He licks honey off his spoon and asks, "Are you ready to venture into the mountains? I think we have acquired enough supplies." Your eyes fly to his face. His lips close over the rim of his cup, and the corners of his mouth twitch in an impish smile. You had no doubt he would desert you now.

"I owe you a debt, Alfirin, remember? I will not leave you until I repay it," you cannot understand if he is jesting, "And I am inclined to remain certain that even then, you will not rid yourself of me." He is smiling playfully, and you cannot help but feel relieved. He is not abandoning you.

It is still raining, and you decide to postpone your departure for another day. You two are in your room, he is whittling, you are repacking your belongings. Somehow you cannot seem to fit all of your effects in your backpack, at least one item is always left on the bed. You try again, and the backpack falls off the bed, several things scattering on the floor. He bends down to help you and picks up a small bundle of cloth. It opens up in his palm, and he sees a little bunch of dry flowers, tied with a dark blue string.

"I know these, they are Anemone, the White Splendour," he twirls them in his fingers, "they are added into tonic to prevent conception." You grab the flowers out of his fingers. "Can you be more of a lecher? Do you carry a vial with you as well, should the occasion occur?" He is chuckling. "And it is not for medicinal purposes, it is a token. To remember a significant day."

He stretches on your bed, long legs swinging from the edge, eyes closed. "That was quite a day then, if you are still carrying them with you." You look at the flowers in your hand. You sigh, wrap them into the cloth again and hide them at the bottom of your backpack. And then you catch him peeking from under half-closed lids. He immediately feigns disinterest but you have already noticed a wrinkle of distress between his brows.

You look at him attentively. The wide shoulders, narrow waist, the strong graceful body relaxed, long fingers intertwined and resting on his chest. He shed all the layers of armour and outergarment, a simple green tunic outlining the hard muscles. Short dark beard, long thick lashes, everything about him is reminiscent of warm chestnut wood, the curls of coffee colour, the glowing bronze of his tanned skin.

And something in you rebels. You sit on the bed near his head and loom over him. He opens his eyes, his pupils dilating instantly. You bend down, your copper curls like a curtain around your two faces. You feel his large palm lying on the back of your head. "Why are you here, Ranger?" "Because I choose to."

You lower your lips on his, your first proper kiss, lips moving and caressing, and you are flooded by his taste, his experience and his skill. He does not rise, still managing to take charge over the kiss, his palm on the back of your neck now. You are supporting yourself on one arm, the second on his chest. The kiss is askew, you have to twist your spine, and then you sigh and slide on top of him.

And he pushes you off. You fall on your back, your breath knocked out of you. He sits up, and now it is him towering over you. He presses his palm into your shoulder and pins you to the bed. "No, Alfirin, none of that..." His voice is raspy, low, and angry blush burns your cheeks.

You jump up and slap him across the face. "Are you enjoying your game, Ranger? Kissing me and then pushing me away!.." Furious tears burst out of your eyes. "Which one of us is playing, my gentle flower?" He has a nasty smirk on his face. "Do you think me that simple? Am I to believe you would go through with your little outburst?" He places his palm on your hip, and your body jolts.

"This is only for your King, is it not? I am not a toy to take your mind off the fact that your Dwarf threw you aside like a worn out boot!" He catches your hand raised in the second slap. You are shaking. He pulls you closer, and you are resisting. He presses his forehead to yours. "When you come to my bed, I do not want you to regret it the next day," his fruity voice makes your shiver, and he smirks ferally, "I will want you again in the morning."

You are taking sharp breaths in, and he catches your mouth in a soft kiss. "I will wait, my flower," he lets go of your wrist and pushes his hands in your hair and pulls you closer, making you look into his eyes, "I will wait for your heart to catch up." Then he places a gentle kiss to your temple and jumps off the bed.

"I do not want to go to the Mountains just yet," your voice is but a whisper. "We can stay here for a few days," he is once again smiling, and his disposition is sunny, "The wine in the inn is excellent."

The next few days are spent in the whirlpool of pastimes that Amrod throws at you at every minute of the day. There are walks, climbing the hills and exploring the little cold brooks, he teaches you a complicated game of rings and sticks he borrows from the children in the settlement. Children love him, they follow him at all time like a small court, cheering his victories and lamenting his losing. You suspect he is letting you win most of the time. One day he brings a kitten to your room. He promises that there is a home waiting for it when you two leave. The small black ball of fur sleeps in your bed at night. You dance. Every night he swirls you in his arms until you are so dizzy and elated that you cannot help but laugh and laugh. You fall in your bed, and your sleep envelops you, heavy and dreamless.

Five days later you two are still in the same village, when the roof he was climbing to get a run away ball for the children collapses under him, and you are screaming. You rush to him and fall on your knees. There is a quickly growing puddle of violently red blood under him, and he is taking spasmodic breaths in. "Alfirin..."


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Since in my mind our Ranger looks like Auggie Anderson, there is a quote from "Covert Affairs" in here :)**

**Thank you very much for your reviews, my lovelies! I am grateful and inspired by them! Love you all!**

**Remember there will be the second part of this story where everything is Thorin and nothing hurts:) Except for everyone's feelings and the emotions I'm planning to extract out of you, my darlings :P **

"Amrod, look at me!" He clenches his teeth and focuses on you. "Tell me of the pain, tell me where it hurts!.." He is very pale, he is losing a lot of blood. You cup his face, "Amrod..." "I am alright, it is just a graze..." You feel his blood soaking into the knees of your trousers. You carefully run your hands over him. There is a narrow wooden plank sticking out of his side. "Are you mad? Just a graze?! Who says that?" He exhales through clenched teeth, and his lips quirk in a crooked smile. "Tough men, tough men say that..." "Can you move your toes? Amrod, can you?! I need to know if your spine is injured..." "I think they are mostly flesh wounds," he coughs, but there is no bloody foam on his lips, "I have injured my spine before, this feels just like a bunch of splinters in my back..."

Children bring some adults, and you carefully roll him. There are two larger planks that went into his side and back, and myriads of small lacerations, and you feel your hands shake. You bite into your bottom lip and tell yourself to calm down. You are a healer, you have seen thousands of wounds, this one is not that severe. You momentarily think back at the times when you had to tend to your King. You feel the same paralyzing dread at the moment.

You take a slow breath and finally start examining him. And then you exhale in relief. It could have ended much more disastrously. You send a man for a healer and jerk off your doublet. You pull off your tunic and press it into the biggest cut. You do not dare to pull the wood out without proper instruments, you do not want to leave pieces in him. "Amrod, we will need to take them out.. It will be very painful but I am certain they have some draught..." His eyelashes flutter. "Amrod! Stay with me, look at me!" The brown eyes open, and he is obviously grasping for his consciousness. "You are so beautiful, Alfirin… Like the moon..." His eyes close, and you raise your voice, "Amrod!"

Three hours later he is in his bed, his wounds cleaned, stitched up and bandaged. You are cleaning up the blooded sheets and basins of water. He woke up from his collapse sometime around the moment when you were pulling a large piece of wood jammed between his ribs. He screamed and thrashed, two men had to hold him down. Once he realized where he was, he bit into his lip and remained silent and still till the end of treatment. You are hoping the numbing draught has started working. He is propped in the pillows, following you with his eyes. You were so worried about him and then preoccupied with his injuries that you forgot that you are only wearing a thin undertunic. You catch his eyes and hurriedly pull your doublet on.

He stretches his left hand towards you, and you take it. He pulls you to sit near him on the bed. You pretend to do it for the sole reason of inspecting his bandages. "You should not move so much..." He presses your knuckles to his lips. "Have I scared you, my flower?" You give him a disbelieving look. "You fell through a roof of a barn and landed, your back first, two floors below. Of course, I was scared!" "It is nice to know I would be missed if anything come to happen to me," he is smiling, and you frown scornfully. "Do not jest like that. And try to get some sleep," he kisses your hand again and then nuzzles your knuckles, "Or I will drug you with some herbs."

His eyes widen in feigned terror. "You would never!.. I cannot believe you would fall so low to gain access to my unresisting body." You shake your head. "One kiss to make me recover faster?" His face is innocent, and you quickly press your lips to his cheek. The corners of his mouth droop mournfully, "That is worse than no kiss at all. I cannot believe you do not know how it is done." You open your mouth to chastise him in indignation, when he hooks his long index finger over the collar of your doublet and pulls you in. His lips are warm, and his taste is intoxicating. You do not pull away for a few minutes. You did get very scared for him.

He lets you go, and you look into his smiling eyes. There is a new emotion splashing in them, and you are suddenly terrified. You school your face into soft smile and pat his uninjured shoulder. "Get some sleep..."

You close the door to his room behind yourself and lean onto it. There is a calling in his eyes, and you feel something inside you answering it. Your heart is fluttering, and you dig your nails into your palms. For so long you have been wearing your loyalty and your devotion for your King as your armour, and now there is a crack in it.

The next five days you are caring for him, and he is recovering surprisingly well. He is an obedient and cheerful patient, and his wounds heal quickly. He is astonishingly compliant, no complaints are heard from him, though you would assume such a restless person would hate to stay in bed. You read books together, and he carves. The only thing he laments is a bath, and finally you examine his bandages and give your permission. You leave him in the common bath rooms with an inn help and go back to his room.

While another help is changing his sheets, you sit on the window sill and stare at the landscape outside. The Spring is picking up its speed, there are small yellow flowers of marigold at the sides of the hills, and suddenly you can see a small house, clean porch, and three dark-haired children. You try to pull away from the vision but your magic overcomes you. You see their dark brown eyes, the same laughing mouths as their father's, the oldest boy tall and lanky, having grown over Summer. The younger ones are girls, with his chestnut hair and your line of lips. You see a small herb garden near the southern wall of the house and swings on a thick low branch of an ashtree. You know that on these swings you have conceived your second child.

You jerk and tumble off the sill and out of his room. You run down the stairs and into the fields. Faster and faster, you push your feet from the ground, to silence the sounds of the children laughing and his voice caressing your name. Soon the air is burning your lungs but you keep on running. When there is no strength left in you, you fall on your knees and press your palms into the cold ground.

Violent sobs shake your body, despair and heartbreak tearing you apart. Tears, hot and unrestrained, scorch your cheeks, and you swallow them, salty and bitter. You do not know how much time passes, but tears stop and sobs stop, and you are staring at the black dirt before your eyes. There will be no children, there will no laughter in the morning and no dancing before the fire in the evening in a small dining room of a neat cozy house. You have given your heart to the King Under the Mountain, and although he has no use of it anymore, it has not been returned to you. You have promised him your love and your life, and you will keep your promise.

You get up on your feet, wobbly and weak, and lift your eyes. In front of you an ancient oak tree has spread its knotted branches, rough bark and wide sturdy trunk. You are staring on the dark branches, already covered in young fresh leaves, and you feel dull pain in your chest. You know nothing can change your decision, but you wish it was different.

You drag yourself back into the inn, and you notice that it is already dark. You feel hollow and numb, and seemingly without your will you start packing. You see your own hands picking up your belongings and stuffing them into the backpack. You leave everything you have acquired after meeting Amrod on your bed. There are books, a necklace the children made for you out of simple clay beads, a figurine of a kitten he cut out for you. You do not notice that you are crying until you see drops fall on the garments you are folding.

A thought comes. You can imagine sneaking to his room, pressing yourself into him, you can imagine the touch of his skin, the ecstasy of finally letting yourself know his embrace, of letting yourself learn him, know him, giving in and giving up. His lips, his hands, the weight of his body on yours, his caresses, confident and passionate, your palms sliding on his bare shoulders and back, your legs wrapping around his waist, the rapture and the bliss…

You lie to yourself that it can be the last goodbye, that it does not have to mean anything... Or it can mean everything... But you know yourself and you know your answer.

And then you close your eyes and allow yourself one last doubt. Shall you stay? Shall you throw your backpack into the corner of your room, take off your chainmail, shed your garments, and in a gauzy undertunic shall you open the door to his room and submit? Shall you come to him as the last goodbye? Or shall you come to him as the first of many greetings?

You clench your hand over the silver ring on your chest and pick up your backpack. You slip through the backdoor and start walking East towards the Misty Mountains.

**END OF PART 1**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: If you haven't read "Thorin's Spring", you might want to read chapters 4 and 5 that take place right after the previous chapter of "Thorin's Defeat". In case you are wondering how the King Under the Mountain got his Wren back :) **

_7 years later_

You are standing in front of the fire in your inn room, drying your hair, treading your fingers through the long strands. They reach below your waist, and you sigh. You have managed to lose another brush. The door opens, and without turning around you know that it is your husband.

His massive arms wrap around your waist, and hot lips are pressed into your bare shoulder. And then you notice a comb in his hand. You laugh, and he chuckles into your skin. "I stopped at a shop next to the inn and bought you another one." You turn in his arms and kiss him. You arch into him and push your hands into his hair. He drops the comb, and the palms lie on your buttocks.

You bite into his bottom lips and wrap your leg around his. "Mahal help me, you are willing tonight…" You giggle and push his waist coat off his shoulders. He swirls you around and starts backing you up towards the bed. It cuts you under your knees, and you fall, his weight crushing onto you, and you oomph. "You are so heavy, my Lord…" He hums apologetically into your neck he is sucking on, "And big… And long..." "Mahal, you are positively indecent..." He lifts his face, and you smile into his laughing eyes.

You lift one brow, "And what are you going to do about it, my Lord?" He licks his bottom lip, and the smirk he gives you sends lecherous shivers through your body. He gets up on his knees, your body locked between his legs, and jerks off his tunic. You purr, you do enjoy the view of his broad muscular chest. He presses his palms into the sheets on the sides of your head, cages your between them and lowers his lips on yours. You meet him halfway, low moan escaping you when his taste floods you.

His hands slide under your shoulder blades, and he rolls you over. He bunches up the skirt of your night dress, and you pull it off your body. "It is about time, my lady," his palms lie on your peaks, "I would not want to slay this one as well." You arch your back, savouring the sensation of his thumbs rubbing the sensitive teats. He is gentle, knowing precisely the pressure you enjoy. "I like this dress on you, my Queen, the narrow things on the shoulders, and the bare skin there, and the..." You rolls your hips over his quite obvious erection, and he chokes on his words.

You press your hands into his chest and then slide them up, raking your nails on the upper arms, pushing them above his head. Then you stroke his forearms, and your fingers encircle his wrists. You press them into the headboard and pin him down with a stare. It is a quite obvious order not to move a single muscle. He chuckles, "I miss the golden ribbons you used to conjure, my Queen. So much easier…" Continuing to rub your center to his crotch, you bend backwards and to the side and pick up the belt from your robe off the edge of the bed. You deftly tie his wrists to the headboard and settle more comfortably on him.

You give him a mock stern glare, "I used up all my magic to save your life, my Lord, and you lament the inconvenience in your bedchamber escapades." You tut tut, and he smiles widely to you.

"They were easier to get out of," he experimentally pulls on his restrains, "And I was not scolded for ruining parts of your garments later, my lady." You are sliding down his body and pull his breeches off. His erection springs to freedom, and you lick your lips. "Do not tear my belt, my Lord." "See? That is exactly what I was… brbzuh…" Your lips envelop the head of his member, and he drops his head back with a moan. You lower your head, slowly, and then slightly tilt it, swirling your tongue around the ridge of his glans. You press your palms on the bed on the sides of his hips and start bobbing your head, hollowing your cheeks, occasionally disrupting the pattern, turning your head, and taking sporadic deeper dives down, not allowing him to settle into a rhythm. Soon enough he is growling in frustration. He is jerking his hips up but it only makes it worse for him. Every time you manage to anticipate his movement, and either pull back and then he growls louder, or contrariwise, let him push up into your throat, clenching your esophagus around him.

He abandons his attempts to domineer and drops his pelvis on the sheets. "Mercy, kurdu..." His voice is raspy and thick, and you slowly lift your head, accentuated sliding of your lips up along his shaft drawing a long and throaty moan out of him. You pause at the head and makes a few small sucking movements. "Oh Mahal… You are killing me..." With a loud popping sound you release him and sit up. You survey the delightful view of the King Under the Mountain spread on your bed, wide chest heaving, eyes closed, lips half open and moist, and cheeks above the thick beard flushed.

You crawl up to him on all four and loom over him. He opens his eyes. "What would my Lord like next?" He smirk lopsidedly. "I am not talking. I am not naive, kurdu. Whatever I ask for, you will give me the opposite. I learnt it the hard way." You laugh, throwing your head back, in an unrestricted merriment. "You are painting a horrible picture, my Lord, as if you are regularly tortured in your marital bed." "I do not see any peace in it almost every night," his tone is highly suggestive, and his brow is lifted.

You stretch on him and push your pelvis down. The tip presses in your folds, and he holds his breath. But then you slide a bit lower and rub yourself to the scorching length. Your clit is swollen, almost painful, performing a fellatio on him can sometimes be enough for you to even achieve release, and this night is no exception. You slide up and down several time, and the pleasure floods you. You drop your head and moan. The King is snarling and pulling on the restrains. He has trouble letting your enjoy yourself without his participation. You can hear the wood of the headboard creaking under the strain, but you do not care.

The belt snaps, and he throws you on the bed. His hands run over your body, eyes manic and dark, and you spread your legs. He gnashes his teeth and plunges into you. You cry out and dig your nails into his shoulders. He pounds into you, each thrust deliberate, accentuated at the end, you whole body jerking up and down, he adds additional push of his hips into you at the end of each lunge. Your voice is coarse, cries turning into low moans. He grabs your wrists and presses them into the sheets. Then he shifts his pelvis, your legs opening wider, his movements rolling over you more, making you lift your hips.

You are crying out in your second release, and he rumbles, speeding up, the bed creaking under you two, the headboard loudly banging into the wall. He climaxes, barking a dirty swearing in Khuzdul, and collapses onto you. His breathing is loud and raspy.

He suddenly realizes your position and carefully lets go of your wrists. You want to see if they are bruised but you cannot lift your arms. Your whole body is limp, and you chuckle. He moves off you and pulls you into him. His fingers gently rub your wrists, and he presses them to his lips. You hum and nuzzle his shoulder. Then you shift and press a kiss on his chest, over his heart. The skin is salty.

He strokes your shoulder with the tips of his fingers. There is a soft small smile on his lips that you love so much. You feel a small tinge of smug pride. No one has ever seen it, it is just for you. He is relaxed, sated, his eyes closed, breathing even and light. You curl into him and pull covers over you two. You start nodding off when his question shakes you out of the haze, "Why did the innkeeper look at you so strangely, kurdu?"

You rub your eyes. You are always the one to fall asleep after lovemaking first. "What innkeeper?" You honestly do not know what he is talking about. "The one who gave us the keys. He seemed to show a certain amount of familiarity with you, though he was also surprised to see you in the company of Dwarves. Have you travelled this path before?"

And then you realize that you did. Seven years ago that was the inn where you deserted the Ranger of Ithilien named Amrod, and you still. You are pondering the best answer. "I have, many years ago. I stayed here on my way to Bree." "To Bree?" His tone is soft but then he realizes what year you are talking about and you feel his body tense under you. "Oh, that travel..."

You remember the lesson you have learnt with the portrait of your first lover Aldacar that you forgot in your trunk and the King found during your betrothal. You almost lost him then, and you do not wish for it to happen ever again. You sit up and look at him. "I was not travelling alone, I had a companion." His eyes grow sharp. "He was a Gondorian, his name was Amrod. We were both travelling East and he got injured in this village. I tended to his wounds and then left for Bree, he stayed behind." He narrows his eyes but he remembers the lesson with Aldacar as well. He remembers the price you both had to paid for his making hasty assumptions. He does not start railing but asks, "And what sort of companionship have you had with this Gondorian?"


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Hey ****Dreamer4life16****! Good to have you with us! Thank you for reading and reviews! Don't be shy to leave more :P**

**Thank you all, my lovelies! You have survived Part 1! Have I mentioned that it was pretty much a set-up for the second one that will be way more excruciating? :P **

You cross your legs and look at your hands resting on your lap. "He has been seeking my attentions, if that is what you ask, my lord." "And has he received them?" His voice is low, but he is still keeping his temper under control. You look at him. The jaws are clenched, the muscles on them in knots. You suppose the only reason he is not raging is that he remembers that your travelling to Bree was his doing.

You sigh. You have a choice between lying and possibly facing his fury. You lift your chin and give him a dignified look, "I had my doubts." He is still, blue eyes blazing, glare heavy. "I was heartbroken, life with his would have been easy… Simple… He was a kindred soul. A rogue, a traveller..." You are waiting for him to speak but he is silent.

"Have you bedded him?" You shake your head. "There were kisses..." He exhales sharply. You want to rush to him, explain yourself, come up with excuses. He abandoned you then, he neglected you, you thought you would never see him again. Being with Amrod was effortless, light, the reckless careless part of you was drawn to him. You think of the night you left and realize that that day you sacrificed this part of your heart, gave up the wandering side of yourself. When the King came for you you went back to Erebor willingly, you even accepted his proposal of marriage, which had been impossible for you before that. Giving up Amrod was giving up the nomad in you. You have a husband and a son now, you are the Queen of Erebor. You have chosen your path, and you do not have regrets.

He is staring at the opposite wall. And then you see him reaching an internal decision, and he sighs. "Is that why you left him here? Have you chosen to wait for me?" He looks at you, and his eyes are soft. You exhale in relief and throw your arms around his neck. He presses you into him firmly, and you bury your nose into his neck. "I did not think you would come. But I was yours and noone else's." You feel him nod. "You are my life, Thorin. There could not have been any other way."

You are sitting intertwine for a while. "Have you thought of him since?" You think carefully before answering. To your own surprise the answer is no. You have memories, warm and affectionate, but there is no pain. You cried your last tears for him that night. "No, and neither has he I am certain." The King chuckles. "Here I would presume you wrong, kurdu. You are not to be easily forgotten." You kiss his throat. "There would be thousands others fro him, I would not have stood out for him."

He slightly pushes you away and smirks. "Right... You do stand out for me though, my lecherous Queen. You have treacherously snatched my purity," he suddenly speaks in a singsong voice, and you snort, "Desecrated my innocence, seduced and ravished me..." You are laughing now, and his eyes are gleaming. "I also gave you a son, my King. Should not that be slightly memorable?" He catches your mouth in a passionate kiss and pushes you into sheets. "Indeed it is. You are also my wife and belong to me." You lift a brow at this territorial growl but decide to let it go. You wrap your legs around him and for a few hours nothing eloquent is said between you two, although you are still rather loud.

A month later you are returning from your visit to Beorn, the Great Chief of the people of the Vales of Anduin and stay in the same inn. You are impatient, you yearn to return home and see your son. This visit was the first trip you have partaken since he was born. You are squirming on your chair, silently wishing the King would chew his breakfast faster, and he chuckles. "You will not make our path shorter by glaring at me, kurdu." "I miss Thror, I wish we took him with us. He would love the animals, and the house, and Beorn himself..." The King patiently pats your hand on the table. He knows you are only grumbling, you yourself rejected the idea of taking the prince to this trip. Mirkwood is still not safe, despite the joint efforts from the Elvenking, people of Dale and the Dwarves of Erebor. You sigh and then growl when the King reaches for another piece of cheese. "Have mercy, kurdu, I need my strength. I hardly got any sleep last night," the King speaks in Khuzdul, his voice low and deep, and you blush.

You peek at other warriors from your company. They are finishing their breakfast at the bigger table, yours by the fire, aside from everyone else, out of hearing range. And then you suddenly feel faint and grab the edge of the table. Everything swims before your eyes, and you are flooded by the memories of the nights in this inn. Your head is spinning, as if a pair of strong hands is swirling you in an exuberant dance again, the cheerful music and clapping ring in your ears, and you take gasps of breath. The King's worried voice sounds as if through a veil, and you feel a pair of strong arms picking you up.

You are sitting on the floor, the King kneeling in front of you, and you lift your eyes. Amrod is standing in the doorframe, his tall figure frozen midtep, brown eyes fixed on you. You are trembling, and the King turns. He is baffled, but then understanding dawns, and he pulls the sword out of the scabbard on his belt. He makes a few large strides and presses the tip of his Dwarven sword to the Gondorian's throat.

The inn gasps, your guard jump on their feet, and you feel even more faint. Amrod's eyes are still on you and a completely out-of-place happy smile spreads on his face. "Alfirin..." You see his lips pronounce his moniker for you, and you try to get up. And then he seems to finally notice the King's sword at his throat. He gently pushes it away by a tip of his finger and bestows the King a low graceful bow. His voice is amicable and joyful, "Honourable King, I am Amrod, son of Mablung, at your service."

There is a moment of tense silence, and you are looking between the two men. And then the King lowers the blade. "Thorin, son of Thrain, at yours," he nods and then turns around and quickly returns to you. He helps you get up, and you are seated on a chair. You are still shaking and keep your eyes on Amrod. He slowly approaches and bows to you. "My lady, it is a pleasure to meet you again." The King is kneeling in front of you again, worry etched on his face. "Are you unwell, kurdu?" He speaks in Khuzdul, and you finally look at him. "Just faint, it will pass." The King's eyes fall on your stomach. You do not understand, but then you cup his face and he looks at you. You shakes your head and smile.

"What are you doing here, Amrod, son of Mablung?" The King's voice is cold, but the eyes fixed on your face are still gentle. "I serve to the Great Chief, I am the captain of his guard. The climate of these lands seems to agree with me." He gives you a mischievous side glance from the corner of his eye. An inn help brings you some water, and you take it gratefully.

One of the guards is standing a few steps away, waiting for some command. You smile to him, "It is quite alright, captain, you can return to your meal." "Aye, my Queen." Amrod's brows jump up and he mouthes "my Queen" behind the King's back in mock reverence. It is so malapropos that you cannot help but snort. He gives you his widest smile and rolls his eyes.

You shift your gaze on the King and see him frowning. He gets up on his feet and turns to the Gondorian. He always has such a contemptuous look when he has to deal with Men, his height compensated by the ardent disdain radiating from him. Amrod is also exceptionally tall even for a Gondorian, and it seems to irk the King even more.

Amrod takes off his gauntlets and pulls a folded letter from under his breastplate. "In actuality I was sent by the Great Chief to catch up with you, honourable King Under the Mountain. The scouts brought news of two packs of Orcs roaming these lands. My party was sent to escort you to the borders of Mirkwood."

The King is studying the letter, his face dark. You are feeling better and address the King in Khuzdul, "Are the packs large? Should we hire ponies to speed up our travelling?" He shakes his head. "They will not have enough for all of us." There are fifteen Dwarves in your guard. Amrod is observing the two of you with merry curiosity.

The King hands him the letter back. "We are setting on the road immediately. How many people have you brought?" "Nine. In addition to your guard, that should be more than enough. All of them are from these lands. They know the terrain and are experienced and fierce fighters."

The King stretches his hand to you, and you get up. His brows are drawn together, and you know you two need to have a heart to heart conversation. Nonetheless, it has to wait. "Lead on, Amrod, son of Mablung. We are losing the light of day."


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: FF site had a glitch so it didn't let me upload anything yesterday. I am slightly terrified with the amount of files I accumulated in 24 hours: two chapters in "We are Scattered in Time and Space," a new chapter for "Blind Carnival," this chapter for "Thorin's Defeat" and a new multi-chapter fic :P What am I doing with my life?! :D**

Your company has settled around the fire, the Northmen sitting several feet away, a quiet conversation led among them. The Dwarves occasionally throw suspicious glances towards them, but there is no open hostility. You are sitting on a log and twirl a mug with tea leaves on the bottom in your hands. The King is standing a few steps away, he is deciding on the patrols order with the captain of Dwarven guard. You know you need to talk, but all through the day he was avoiding being alone with you even for an instant. He is obviously brooding, his brow perpetually frowned, lips pressed together.

"My Queen," you lift your eyes and see Amrod's white toothed grin. "Allow me?" He gestures on the log near you, and you tense. He is putting you in an awkward position, and as you suspect intentionally. To refuse him is to show emotional tension to exist between you two. To agree is to enrage your already jealous King.

"Forgive me, honourable captain," the King's low voice is uncoloured, and you jerk your head. He is standing in front of you, his face unreadable, "I have to interrupt you and usurp the Queen's attention." He stretches his palm to you, and you put your hand in his. He pulls you up and nods to Amrod. You can physically feel the waves of despite radiating from the Dwarven King. Amrod bestows you two a ceremonial bow, and the King leads you away from the fire into the woods. You follow him, your head lowered, a picture of wifely obedience.

Once you are concealed by the trees and the distance allows you to converse openly, though probably still preferably in hushed tones, he lets go of your hand and steps away from you. His back turned to you, you see the shoulders are tense and fists are clenched. You brace yourself, he is obviously furious.

"I will give you two minutes to explain yourself, my Queen," his tone is menacing. Your trepidation is immediately replaced by annoyance. "Pardon, my lord?" He turns around and glares into your eyes. "You have two minutes to explain how your former lover ended up being our escort in this travel!" You puff some air out. Mahal help you, you will need all the patience in the world.

"He is not my former lover, and I do not know." He is fuming silently, jaws clenched. "I honestly do not know what he is doing in the Vales. I suppose the climate does indeed..." "It was a moon ago! Just a moon!" He snarls, though still keeping his voice down. "Pardon?" You are rather confused. "Just last moon you told me of him, and now it turns out he is here. Have you been preparing me to this fortunate encounter, my Queen?" He is sneering through his teeth.

"I did not tell you about him, you asked me and I did indeed remembered traveling through these lands with him, but only just so. I had not even thought of it until…" "And could you have been more exuberant to see him?!" He interrupts you again, "Fainting at his sight! How impassioned of you!" He steps towards you, and you brace yourself not to shy away from him. "I felt faint before I saw him!" "Why?" He barks. "I do not know! I have never felt like that before!" He is snarling, "Magical feelings you seem to be harbouring for the Gondorian, my Queen."

You decide you have had enough. "Thorin, stop! Think of what you are saying! You are twisting every little detail! The next thing you will do is accuse me of scheming to meet him here!" He gives you an unpleasant smirk. "What other explanation can there be? What kind of coincidence is happening here? You tell me of him in the same very inn, and a moon after he shows up in his shining armour and flailing cloak!" The description is so absurd that you cannot suppress a hysterical giggle.

He steps closer to you, his eyes narrowed, and you are momentarily genuinely scared. "Do not mock me, my Queen," he is terrifying in his fury, and you recoil, "It is not wise. And for your paramour as well, nothing will help him if I decide we can travel without him."

And suddenly you can think clearly. "Thorin, come back to your senses! There is nothing happening, except your jealousy clouding your judgement! We happen to travel through the lands where a man I knew before lives!" He is fuming, and you place your hand on his chest to mollify him, "I have not thought of him in years, since the night I left him behind in his bed." You clasp your palm to your mouth. Out of all words you could have chosen, these were the most disastrous.

He emits a horrific growl and jerks a sword out of his scabbard. He turns towards the camp, and you dash to him. "Thorin, no!" You grab his upper upper arm, and he shakes you off. "I have never bedded him, he fell through the roof of a barn!" He starts walking, and you try to catch up. And then you are suddenly so angry that your punch his shoulder. "Would you stop and listen, impossible Dwarf?! I have chosen you then, and the choice was not easy!" "Oh, I am certain you were torn apart with doubt!" He is hissing, and you hang on his arm. "Are you regretting your choice now, my Queen?" "Do not be dim! Of course I do not! Never for a second I doubted I made the right choice!"

He slows down and turns to you. He is taking sharp breaths in, and anger is still radiating from him, but he is not walking. You have but one chance to stop the impending bloodshed. You press yourself into him and throw your arms around his neck. If he is not listening to reason, you will have to use a different language. You grab handfuls of his hair and pull at it painfully. His eyes widen.

"I am your wife, I have chosen you. Do you hear me? And how could I have chosen otherwise after being yours, after bedding you, giving you my body and my heart?" His eyes soften, and you know you are on the right path. You press your forehead into his and murmur, "It was my fourth Spring in Erebor, you had bedded me, let me be your counsel, allowed me into your heart… You had given me our bed by then… The bed we share every night now, the bed we conceived our son in..." You are stroking his temples and his sensitive ears, and the hand with the sword descends. He sighs, and his features soften. You continue your caresses and move your lips closer to his, "That is of course if it happened in the bed, we were rather rampant those weeks. There were those few times in the pantry, and the kitchen, and that lovely evening in your study on your escritoire..."

He grabs the back of your head and presses his lips to yours. You moan into his mouth and push his lips open with your tongue. He is blindly trying to put his sword away and then just throws in on the ground. His hands are roaming your body, and he is growling again, this time in irritation over so many layers hiding it from him. You push your fingers into his hair and arch into him.

He is backing you up, and you are suddenly trapped between his wide body and a trunk of a tree. You are groping each other, his ministrations destroying your braids, and somehow he manages to find a small patch of naked skin among your garments and armour on your torso. His scorching palm presses into it, and you moan louder. He shushes you and proceeds kissing your neck. He unwraps the scarf covering it and sucks on the sensitive skin on your throat. He is not being gentle but you allow him, dropping your head back. He is obviously branding you. He will pay for it later, when the emotional turmoil of this trip is finally over.

The bushes rustle, and the captain of your guard steps out of them. He is momentarily frozen in front of his King pinning his wife to a tree, her leg wrapped around his hips, clothes in disarray and his sword and, to your own surprise, his unclasped belt on the ground at their feet. Then he spins around and mumbling that it is not safe in the woods and he was just ensuring your security he scampers back to the camp.

The King is standing, caging your between his straight arms, palms pressed into the tree, his head dropped. He is obviously trying to reign his raging arousal. You start giggling. He gives you a glare askew, which only makes you laugh harder. He chuckles as well. You cup his face and kiss him modestly. He smiles to you and meets you in a tender kiss. And then he pulls you into him, his cheek pressed into your hair, and you are certain the storm has passed.


	13. Chapter 13

You stroke his beard with your thumbs and lightly bite your bottom lip. He notices the expression and sighs heavily. "You still think we need to talk about it, don't you, kurdu?" He sounds grouchy, but benevolent. You nod and slightly kiss the corner of his lips. He sighs again, "Very well." He picks up your hand, "I will accept that this is nothing but an astonishing coincidence that you knew nothing about." You nod and give him a small smile. "But do not ask me to tolerate him. And his suggestive grins." "I do not want him on this trip any more than you, my lord. But if there are indeed Orc packs roaming these lands, we need him and his warriors." "If indeed there are Orc packs..." He grumbles darkly. "Thorin, surely you do not!.. You saw the letter yourself!" "It could have been fabricated." You shake your head in disbelief, "To what avail? To spend a few days in our company, sleeping on the hard ground and eating dried meat?" You lift your brows. He presses his lips together.

You wrap your arms around his neck, "I appreciate your thinking my allure is so irresistible and unforgettable to assume a man would go for so much trouble to spend a few days beside me, but surely you can see it is absurd." He embraces you in return and kisses your throat. He is murmuring in your skin, "It is not..." "Then surely there is some sort of defect in the Gondorian's thinking. Where is a pleasure in seeing me in the arms of another man whom I am so clearly enamoured with?" He mumbles something under his breath, but he is obviously pleased.

"And your faint spell?" That is his last vexation, but you have nothing to tell him. "I am utterly at loss here, my lord. I never felt that way. It was this unpleasant disturbance, my magic flared up, and my memory jumbled..." You lower your eyes at your intertwined fingers, "I remembered being here seven years ago, in that inn, even before I saw him… But it was unsettling, twirling..." You frown. He is studying your face. "Is that how you remember that time?" You shake your head. "No, I remember being heartbroken, but by then I was already determined to go to Bree, and the stop in that inn was just a postponement..."

He pulls you into tight embrace. "I was a fool." "Yes, you were," your voice is playful, "But you did come for me after all. Showed up in my bedroom as far as I remember, haughty and irked." "I was not irked!" He sounds irked now, but you catch a glimpse of a smile on his lips. "Oh yes, my lord, you were!" "You were taunting me with your naked buttocks in a sheer night tunic! And then you decided to remind me again that under no circumstance you were ever to be my wife!" You laugh. "Much good did it do!"

He touches the heavy necklace on your neck with the tips of his fingers. "Well, I am only happy I brought it with me. You just could not resist such betrothal gift." "I would have gone back with you to Erebor even without it," you are smiling, "And my determination to resist this marriage had already ebbed by then. I just needed one more push." He smirks. You smack his shoulder. He is so obviously thinking about the lovemaking that transpired afterwards, in a small grove, with summer flowers and tall grasses swaying around you, that you blush. And then, on your way back, by the bridge… You shake your head, it is no time and place for such thoughts. You will not see any privacy until you reach Mirkwood. And again, you doubt the King will stay in the Elvenking Halls. You might just refresh your supplies and push forward to Erebor.

After a few more minutes of passionate embraces and languished kisses you finally force yourselves to return to the fire. Most of the guards who are not on the look-out have already settled to sleep, and you see the Northmen also wrapping in their cloaks and lying down. The King sits down and leans onto a tree trunk. You curl into his side and close your eyes. His hand lies on your shoulder, a familiar weight, and the darkness envelops you.

_Your feet are sliding on wet rocks at the bottom of a small stream, and his hands grab your shoulders. His warm chestnut eyes are laughing, and he supports you, long fingers sliding on your shoulder blades. He pulls you closer, "Careful, Alfirin..." You look down at the translucent water running between the glossy pebbles, carrying forest riffraff, and then lift your eyes to him. He is gazing at you tenderly, and his lips twitch. "We would not want the stream to carry you away!" You snort, the water hardly reaches your ankle. He suddenly picks you up into his arms and twirls around. You squeak, and he is laughing, his usual unrestrained frolics, white teeth and wrinkles in the corners of his eyes. "I am keeping you to myself, Alfirin, the river can find itself its own flower." You smile back. "I am not your possession, ranger." "Of course not, we are just travelling together, like water in a stream and a flower," he is grinning widely and starts swirling again, "Are you dizzy in the whirlpool already, oh the delicate white flower?" You are laughing and beg for mercy, "Yes, yes, put me down!" "I cannot," his voice dips lowers, velvet and smoky, "I myself am a slave of the current..."_

You open your eyes. The King stirs near you in his sleep, but you can see it is not yet morning. The Northmen keep their smaller fire burning at night as well, and you see Amrod sitting and quietly talking to one of his guards. He is as tall as them, but much more slender, lithe and agile. The fire throws shadows on his noble features, his cheekbones striking, dark eyes lively and brilliant. He suddenly lifts them and meets your gaze directly. Your breathing hitches, and the moment stretches. And then he gives you his usual smile, wide and jubilant, and lowers his head in a mocking bow.

You two get a chance to finally talk when after finishing a hurried breakfast, shivering from morning dew, both Men and Dwarves finally start marching. Stretched into a long line, the mixed company is walking North, the landscape around you increasingly dreary and flat, thick leafage of forests left behind you. Your King is concerned, you can see a wrinkle lying between his brows. You are indeed too much in the open, a perfect target for a swift attack.

He turns back to Amrod and barks over his shoulder, "Is there no other way, honorable captain? We are spread before our foe like a chicken on a market table!" Amrod catches up with him, and you press your lips together in irritation. He is obviously parading his wide stride and the ease and speed with which he can move. "This is the safest path, honorable King," his voice is laced with humour, and he looks down at the Dwarven King along his elegant narrow nose, "I would not lead you and your Queen this way if there was a better option." The King grumbles and falls behind, no doubt to talk to his warriors. Amrod speeds up some more and aligns his steps with yours.

"My Queen," you give him a side glance, "How are you faring this morning?" You sharply turn your head to him and glare. "Are we to pretend that we do not know each other or we can talk as old friends and avoid unnecessary tension?" A wide rascal smile blooms on his lips. "Finally, my Alfirin is back!" You make a scornful noise. "I have never been yours, and you should forget the moniker. My name these days is lady Zundushinh." He lifts his striking brows. "Quite a mouthful, does it have a meaning?" "That is my Dwarven name, it means Birdlady." "Ah, the secret language of the Dwarves," he drawls and gives you a look over, "I will refrain. I still cannot see anything bird like about you, Alfirin. Petals and anthers on the other hand..." You sigh, you do not wish to start a dispute.

"And then again, I was not certain which level of familiarity between us you would feel comfortable to disclose to your King, Alfirin," he is slightly bending towards you in a mock consideration, and you exhale sharply. "I have no secrets from my husband." You see his eyes widen. "Great Chief has not mentioned the King Under the Mountain had a wife." "So you did not know you would find me here?" You cannot help but ask, and then you bite your tongue. He chuckles. "So that is the impression you have got, Alfirin! How self-assured of you!"

"I have not," you feel you are blushing and curse your pale skin, "I was just wondering how informed you were." "I was told to escort the King and his company. His most precious cargo was not mentioned." It is such an obvious trap to make you huff and puff in indignation and shout that you are no cargo that you shortly wonder if you were so easily manipulated when you two met that he thinks he can extricate an emotional response now. You keep on walking, looking ahead.

He chuckles again. "So you have returned to your stone cage after all, Alfirin." "Says the man who once again is wearing a banner on his breast plate." He laughs, "Fair enough. But one cannot run from their nature forever. I am a soldier, and I serve..." "And I am the wife of the King Under the Mountain, and Erebor is where I belong," you look at him, and his eyes are melancholic.

"Was it naive of us, Alfirin, to presume we could be nomads all our life and just travel and follow the road wherever it went?" "I would think so. It was a beautiful dream though," you softly smile to him, for the first time remembering the lightness and the ease you used to share, "But the time has passed. We cannot run anymore, Amrod." He nods and then sharply halts, falling behind. You continue walking, your feet taking measured steps on the track.


	14. Chapter 14

By noon you are reaching the end of your tether. Since your company started marching, you are constantly preoccupied with diffusing the King's flaring temper, listening to Amrod's unnecessarily witty remarks, and making sure you are not walking too close to either of them. The Dwarf is being territorial, the Gondorian is being derisive. At some point you fall behind with only a few Dwarven guards following you. Since it is decided by the very resentful King that you are not stopping for a midday meal, you are chewing on your food while walking.

Predictably the tall figure of Amrod is approaching you. "Are you alright, my lady?" "Yes, I am. Thank you." He hands you his flask. "Apple cider?" You remember this habit of his and shake your head. He starts walking along, and you internally groan. The King is in the head of the procession, preceded only by a scout from the Northmen. Somehow you are certain he is aware of your current company.

"So, how is the life in Erebor faring you, Alfirin?" "Exceptionally well, kind sir," you might be glaring. He is predictably smiling. "How do you grow your favourite herbs in there? I remember you telling me it is all a big mountain city." "There are woods around it," you sign. You catch the King looking over his shoulder. The Gondorian's hands are locked behind his back, his step light and confident. There is almost something Elvish in the ease of his stride.

You nod and excuse yourself. And then you walk faster and change your position in the procession. The King slows down. "What did he want?" His voice is acrimonious, and you once again decide that you need to stay away from both of them. You pat the King's arm, "Just making a small talk, asked me about Erebor. I seem to remember he was curious about the city seven years ago as well." The King throws another indignant stare over his shoulder. You consider screaming and running away.

By the end of the day you are fuming. They managed to have three peevish arguments through the day, although you have to admit only one of them was indeed peevish. The second one seems to be smiling wider with each disagreement. You are only glad that they wisely carry out their bickering when no warrior can hear them. Except they do not extend the same courtesy to you. More so, you suspect that at least half of this demonstration of masculinity and temper is for your eyes.

After the fires are started and everyone has their dinner, you touch the King's arm. He nods and gets up. You two silently walk towards a small stream that you can hear behind the bushes. You refresh and splash some water on your face. He is standing leaning on a tree. Amrod steps out of the shrubs, a small pot in his hand.

He demonstratively presses his hand to his eyes. "Am I intruding, my lady?" You wipe your face with your scarf and get up from your knees. "You are not, kind sir," you just need to quickly return to the camp and sit down in peace. You are trying to reign your irritation. You feel so irked that you almost look for something to make you lash out.

The King steps from under the tree. "Honourable King, I have not seen you there," Amrod scoots on the edge of water and scoops some water. "That much is obvious, honourable captain," the King's voice is low. You clench your teeth. The Gondorian hikes up his brows in an innocent expression and then turns to you as if asking for clarification. With all possible clarity you imagine punching his smug face.

"You are holding a conversation with me, honourable captain, and not with my wife," the King is snarling through his teeth. Amrod stands up in his impressive height and lifts his chin. He narrows his eyes, still with a smile on his face, but the corners of his lips are tense, and a large fist tightens on the handle of the pot.

"That I am, honourable king. What would you like to converse about?" He is towering over the Dwarven King, who takes a step ahead. You look at the face of your husband with alarm. He is not looking the Gondorian in the eyes, they are standing so close, that would demand him to lift his face. As always when he is enraged and contemptuous, he is looking down, his lips pressed haughtily. "I would like to converse about your disrespectful behaviour towards my Queen." That does it.

"I am standing right here!" Your voice is so harsh that it sounds as if you are growling. Perhaps, you have learnt in from the King. "And I demand you both to stop this! You," you point your finger at Amrod, "Enough of your drollery, no one appreciates it here. And you, my King," you lessen the disdain in your tone, adding a bit of respect into your voice, "We are all tired from the road, I am certain the captain did not mean any insubordination. He has peculiar manner of speaking." You are offering them both a reasonable resolution of the tension.

But it seems neither of them appreciates your effort. The King lifts his eyes and stares into the brown irises of the Gondorian. The smile on Amrod's face is increasingly reminding you of a scowl. It is lopsided and insincere.

"Perhaps you should go back to the camp, zundush," the King's voice is gruff, and you see his massive hands clench in fists. You are looking at him in disbelief. Is he honestly planning to have a brawl with a captain of an allied Kingdom? "You should listen to your husband, Alfirin, as any obedient Dwarven wife would do," Amrod's voice is singsong.

"Perhaps, you two should skip the taunting part and just take out your swords already," you are surprised to hear that your voice is even. Both men turn to look at you stunned. "It is quite obvious you have immense antipathy towards each other. Let us just forget that one of you is at a service of an honorable King while another one is a King himself. Take out your blades and hack each other into pieces. It is such a practical solution," you can feel venom filling your mouth. "And while you are at it, Amrod, son of Mablung, do not forget to impale a leader of a whole country. And you, my lord, feel free to neglect the fact that you have a son waiting for you at home. And of course," your voice is already high pitched, "feel free to ignore Orc packs roaming around."

You turn around on your heels and stomp to the camp. There is silence behind you. Just as you predicted, as soon as they lost their audience, their fervour for altercation ebbed. You flop on a log in front of the fire. You are so tired of being treated like a bone two dogs are fighting over that you are grinding your teeth. You believe you had given both of them the benefit of doubt. You tried to imagine how it could appear from the King's point of view. He was enjoying his return from a successful political visit, he was happily in love, and his first born son was waiting for him in Erebor. The sudden intrusion of your past into his blissful bubble was obviously painful. But you deserve a bit of trust from him!

And the Gondorian… You kick a bag near your foot. Whatever transpired between the two of you happened seven years ago. Does he honestly expect you to believe that he could not forget you? What was there for him to remember? Obviously there were hundreds of women before you, and after. His behaviour is only caused by his exasperating destructive character. You are certain now that when he was a child he would habitually poke a wasp nest with a stick.

You are rather certain that they are still standing there, locked in a death stare. You suddenly imagine them in the very same position but covered in moss and fallen leaves, years going by, and the two of them still endeavoring to prove who is more of a man and can keep his eyes on his opponent longer. You puff some air out and wrap yourself in your cloak.

The King comes from behind you, and his hand lies on your shoulder. You are half considering shaking it off, but you allow him to speak. "Forgive me, zundush, it was unacceptable." You silently stare at the fire. "I had no right to treat you as my property and brandish our marriage in front of him." You look at him sideways, he looks sincerely regretful. For a second you feel a bit proud of yourself. You have taught a chauvinistic Dwarf a wee bit of respect towards women.

You pat the log near you, and he sits down with a relieved sigh. "Have you reached any agreement with the captain, my King?" Your tone is stern. He shakes his head, "I just left." You look towards the bushes and sigh. The King picks up your hand. "I will make peace with him in the morning, kurdu," he kisses your knuckles. It is an obvious bribe. He knows you want them to cease their confrontation, and he is ready to submit for your forgiveness. You would prefer him to understand the error in his thinking, but you will take what you are offered. The road is no place of educating your husband in trust and integrity. You will address it later. You give him a short nod. You two settle to sleep. The last thought you have before the sleep comes is that Amrod still has not returned to the camp.


	15. Chapter 15

The next morning you wake up and nuzzle the King's throat above the collar of his tunic. You are still half asleep, and you habitually press your lips to the pulse on his neck. He chuckles, "We are not in our bed, zundush." You jerk away and sit up. You look at him, his eyes are laughing, and you smack his chest. You have momentarily forgotten you are marching through the Vales of Anduin and have spent this night on the hard ground. He tends to scoop you into tight embrace in his sleep. There is very little difference for you where you sleep, you always wake up completely enveloped in him. You stretch and do not miss how his eyes follow the lines of your body. The abstinence of the last few days starts taking its toll on you two. You know that though right now it is only making the King more playful, soon enough he will grow irritated and bothered. His dependency of your lovemaking to sustain his even mood entertains and aggravates you at the same time.

You turn your head and see Amrod among other Northmen. They are having breakfast, and you are immediately stricken by the difference in his demeanor. His shoulders are tense, he seems cold and reserved, almost rigid, none of his usual liveliness and jubilance. His movements are sparse, his posture stiff. You feel a strange cold shiver running down your spine.

Within an hour your procession is on foot again. Amrod is walking in the head of the company, he has not approached either you or the King this morning. You were greeted by his second in command and assured that the next stretch of the path seems to be safe.

The King is walking near you, and you brush your hand to his. He looks at your sideways, and you see his lips twitch. "My lord," you start cautiously, "What transpired between you two last night? The captain seems distraught." The smile that was teasing the King's lips is gone. He clenches his jaw, "Well, he should be." You look at him with a soft reproach. "I have not lied to you, zundush. After your eloquent speech and hasty exit, I turned around and left. I have not harmed the Gondorian in any way." He sounds petulant. You stare at Amrod's back ahead of you. "Perhaps he finally accepted that you do not appreciate his attentions." You sigh. "Let us hope that is the reason."

The King catches your hand, and you press his fingers in your gloved ones. You crave the touch of his skin, pressing yourself into him, without restriction and barriers. "There is no point in thinking about it now, my heart, you will only make yourself feel more distressed," his tone is mischievous, and you press your lips together. He knows you too well. He quickly leans in and presses his lips to your jaw. You shiver. "Then you need to refrain from your provocations, my lord," you sound grouchy, and he guffaws. "I love that I am the wise one right now, my heart." "That will undoubtedly change in a day or two. Another morning, and you will be in agony," you lift a brow and point at his trousers with your eyes. He laughs again. "I already am," he lowers his voice and leans into you. His hand slides under your cloak, and you feel his large palm on your buttocks. You look at him with an almost sincere reproach. "You are only making it worse for yourself, my King." "Am I making it worse for you, my heart?" His voice is rumbling in his chest, and he quickly presses his lips to the sensitive skin near your ear. You really should not encourage him. "Endlessly, my lord." You look at him from under your lashes, his eyes are dark. He steps away and for the next hour of walking he keeps a sensible distance between your bodies.

Another day comes to its conclusion, and once again you follow the sound of running water to a small stream hidden in the shrubs. You wash your face and neck, and sigh lamenting your bath in Erebor. Your thoughts immediately stride to splashing in it with the King, warm water and soapbark suds running down the hard muscles of his chest, and you shake your head. You must be approaching the new moon, it always makes you more lustful. You count in your head and remind yourself to take your tonic. Dealing with your monthly pains is the last thing you need in this trip.

You hear loud irritated voices coming from the camp, there is an obvious quarrel between Dwarves and Northmen, and you get up on your feet. The King looks alarmed. "You should go, my King. I will be alright here. It is just a step away from the camp..." He hesitates but then he nods. "If you hear any noise..." "Go, my King, I am just on the other side of the bushes..." He rushes back to the camp, and you return to the water.

"It is virtually impossible to separate you two. My lieutenant had to subject himself to Dwarven wrath for us to talk," you swirl around. Amrod is standing a foot away from you. His words could have been understood as a light joke of his usual sort, if not for the dark expression on his face. The jaws are clenched, and he is taking deep measured breaths in.

You straighten up. "What is the meaning of this, Amrod?" You are not scared of him, you know him, there is no darkness in him. You gently touch his heart with your magic, there is no malice, just ache and anguish. He heavily sits down on the ground and lifts his eyes at you. They are pained, not a trace of his perpetual smile in them.

"It is not how it was supposed to be, Alfirin," his voice is hardly audible, "Not like that..." You are frozen in front of him. He smirks, lifelessly, joylessly. "Have I ever told you that I have some bastard blood of the Kings of the Old in me? Some say that it even came from Isildur himself. I often wonder if I should try my hand in healing. Perhaps the Kingsfoil will submit to my power," he is staring at his hands, "But one gift I do possess for certain, Alfirin. And that is one of prophetic dreams." He lifts his face to you again. You take a step back from the agony playing in his features.

"It was not to be this way, Alfirin. You were to mother my children, a son and two daughters… I have seen them, I have seen their faces. My eyes and your smile," he suddenly jumps up on his feet, and his face distorted in anger. You recoil again. "Not his, mine! I searched for you for years! By the time I reached Bree, you were already gone and noone knew where you headed. I thought the Vales are the most reasonable place to stay. You were to cross the High Pass at some point. I was close to Erebor as well… But I was wrong, I was certain you would not return to your cage..." He steps closer to you, his eyes burning, and you are pinned by his gaze. "But to marry him and give him a son… It was not to be..." He is now towering over you. You see him flex his fingers, but he does not touch you.

You feel tears running down your face. His face softens, and he lowers his head. His shoulders drop in defeat. "I have seen them too..." He jerks his head up to meet your eyes. "I had a dream about them that night… When I left you. I saw them, the son and two daughters, and a small house with a herb garden…" "And an ash tree..." His voice is but a whisper. "And the swings on the branch..." He is gazing into your eyes, and something in his shifts.

He bends down, and his long fingers envelop your shoulders. "We can still run away, Alfirin. Forget it all and run! And we have the road again, just the two of us…" You jerk away from him and step back. His arms fall along his body. "Are you mad? I am a married woman, I have a child, I am a Queen..." "It does not matter!" He is screaming, his eyes brilliant and mad. "It matters for me. I have responsibilities!" "You have them before me too!... And our children!..."

"I do not love you!" He sways away from you, and his mouth twists. "How can you not understand? I saw that life and chose against it. It was the day I left, it was the day I chose my husband." He is pale and shaking, but then he closes his eyes and seemingly returns to his senses.

He takes three deep breaths in and then bows. "Then I apologise for my imposition, my Queen." When he straightens up, his face is unreadable. He turns around and leaves for the camp.

You are trembling, clenching your fists, trying to silence your teeth clanking. Whatever happened and however shaken you feel right now, another sensation frightens you. The final disclosure has not ebbed your foreboding. You are frantically searching your magic for the explanation, but none comes. You are still overwhelmed with the cold, clenching at your heart. You pick up your belongings from the ground and head back to the camp. You silently curl up into the King's side and fall into deep dreamless sleep.


	16. Chapter 16

The clamour of the fight and clashing of blades wake you up, and the King rolls over your body, shielding you. You are momentarily disoriented, and then you jump on your feet. He pushes you behind him, his Elven blade already in his hand, and you pull Mudikh, your short Dwarven sword out of its scabbard. Three more Dwarven guards rush to your two. They encircle you, and the King steps forward.

Blades are clashing around you, Dwarves and Men scream, their battle cries mix with snarling of Orcs, and you quickly evaluate the fracas around you. You are vastly outnumbered, and you are momentarily surprised. Orc packs are rarely that large, and then you understand that they obviously belong to two groups. The crude markings on their armour are of two distinct clans. Something must have made them unite, which is rarity on its own.

Half of the assailants are smaller, darker, probably the trackers, the Snufflers, while the rest are Uruks, large and more reminiscent of Men in their build. The banners they have on them differ, but their goal seems to be the same. They are determinedly attacking the Dwarven guard with fierceness and vengefulness, the Northmen understood as just as obstacle.

The largest Uruk steps ahead, out of the crowd of his soldiers, and you are mortified. "Oakenshield!" he is snarling, and suddenly looks at you. His beady eyes run over your red hair, and he smirks. You hear the rough throaty consonants of Blackspeech, "Come out until I have not decided to taste the sweet blood of your woman!"

You turn and see the King spinning in one of his terrifying swirls, several Orcs falling on the ground, the wide heavy blade of Orcrist slashing their monstrous bodies. The guards surrounding you lock their shoulders, and you clench your sword tighter. The guards are obviously trying to push you away from the fight, when another wave of the enemies spills on the campsite from the opposing bushes. You swirl and see Amrod's green cloak swoosh between the Orcs and the spot where you are standing.

He is still holding his bow in his hands, and you see three Orcs on the ground, his arrows having pierced their right eyes. He throws the bow aside, and the long narrow sword glistens on the glare of the fires. He is swift, and the first Orc chokes on his own black blood. Amrod pulls the blade out of his throat and lunges in a long graceful move, low and deadly, and two more fall on the ground.

You spin and see the King surrounded with Orcs, his broad heavy body gaining momentum, and two heads roll on the ground at the same time. Dwarven guards seem to realize the intentions of the enemy, they rush towards the King, and suddenly one of the three closest to you stumbles, a short black arrow sticking out between the gorget and the helmet. "Archers!" You hear the Dwarven captains' scream, and a few Northmen rush to the bushes. You hear the ruckus there, and then the two guards near you clash their swords with five Orc.

You take down your first Orc in a low forceful dive, your blade buried deep between his ribs, right into the heart. You pull the sword out in a trained movement, swirl and hit the shoulder of the next one. Another one catches your blade with his hand in a metal gauntlet, and he throws you backwards. You brace yourself, concentrating on not losing the sword, and you roll on the ground. "Amrod!" You hear the King's booming voice, "Protect her!"

You jump on your feet, jab your sword into the throat of the nearest Orc and push off his thrashing body of it with a forceful kick. "I am fine!" One of your guards is convulsing on the grass, red blood gushing out of a large laceration on his shoulder. You kneel, roll him over and press his cloak into it.

The fight continues, and while your body goes through familiar movements, you realize that you have equal chances of surviving or dying tonight. Most of the Orcs are attacking the Dwarves and yourself, while Northmen are left aside. Orcs only fight them if they have to. You realize that must be coming from their commander, and you search the tall Uruk with your eyes. He is fighting two Dwarven guards, and he is winning. The first one stumbles, the wide crude sword sinking deeply into his shoulder, going under a terrifying angle into his chest. The second one manages to bestow the monster with a heavy blow before another Orc cuts him down under his knees.

Amrod is near you, and he grabs your upper arm, "Alfirin! We need to leave!" It takes you a moment to realize what he is saying. "I am not leaving my warriors!" "They want you because you are his wife!" He starts dragging you to the side of the clearing, but has to let you go to block the attack of two more Orcs. You slay them together, but when he turns towards you again, you rush away from him. He catches you across your middle, and you are fighting him furiously, "Let me go!"

The King's blade goes through two Orc torsos and he turns to you two, "Get her away!" "No!" You are screaming, Amrod's strong arms wrapping around you. The Orc leader snarls something, and a few more assailants rush to you. "Let me go! I won't leave him!" You see two Orcs attacking the King at the same time, and he blocks, but the sword of the third one falls on his shoulder, and he stumbles. You scream at the top of your lungs.

Amrod turns to look, and you push him away. You dash towards your husband, and a few remnant Dwarves join you, when a white hot pain pierces your shoulder. You stumble and fall on your knees. An Orc arrow is sticking out of your deltopectoral muscle, and you jerk it out. The back of the wide arrowhead opens the wound wider, but with a cold professionalism you calculate that the shock from the pain will allow you to fight for some time more. You estimate you have about ten minutes before the blood loss and the pain overwhelm you.

"Alfirin!" You get up on your feet and step towards a ruckus around the King, several Orcs in a tight ring around him. Amrod yells his order, and the Northmen abandon their opponents and charge at them. He grabs your unwounded shoulder, and you finally look him in the face.

There is panic in his face, and pain, and love. "Please, Alfirin, please!.." He is begging, but you jerk your shoulder out of his grip. You stubbornly shake your head, and he suddenly lunges at you and press his strong fingers into the wound on your shoulder. You wail and sag on the ground, your strength gushing from your body with the scarlet blood. Two Northmen shield you from the rest of the fight. He lets you go and gently lifts you. The sword falls out of your hand.

He passes you to his lieutenant, and for a second there is doubt on his face. His lips twitch but the words stay unsaid, and he rushes ahead. You feel hot tears run down your cheeks, as you see him cutting through the ring around the King.

Terrified you watch the blood shed, throaty screams and moans of pain rising into the dark sky, and finally you can see that there are but a few Orcs left, Dwarves and Men pushing them back in accord. You see the King turn to look at you, and then the chief Uruk pushes the two Dwarves fighting him away, and his sword slides under the hem of the King's brigandine into his thigh.

The King falls on his knees, and his weight is supported on one of his arms. He lifts Orcrist and blocks the next crushing blow. The King is on the ground, his blood rushing from the wound. In an instant while the Orc sword is being lifted above his head, you realize that other warriors do not see it, and you understand you will be the only one to see the defeat and the demise of the King Under the Mountain.

You open your mouth to scream, when you see Amrod slide along the ground in a smooth plunge, his sword entering the Uruk's body through the vulnerable spot under his breast plate, into the lungs, and its tip become visible above his shoulder. And then a short Orc dagger cracks Amrod's breastplate in the last terrifying assault of the Uruk chief.

They both fall on the ground, and you scream. Your eyes shift to the King, and you can see him heavily rise on one leg. The wail of the last dying Orc is carried across the clearing, but you do not hear it. Your eyes are locked on Amrod's unmoving body, and you jerk out of the North man's hands. You fall on the ground, he is standing frozen, seemingly without even noticing that you moved, and you press your palm into your shoulder. Both you and the King reach the body of the Gondorian at the same time.

You fall on your knees in front of him, your trousers soaking his blood pooling on the ground, and you press your hand to his chest. Your blood mixes with his, and he opens his eyes, "Alfirin…"


	17. Chapter 17

"Amrod," everything swims in front of your eyes, from the blood loss and the cold despair gripping on your heart. You push your magic through your fingers, and it rushes into his body evaluating the damage, and you see that there is no hope. You unclasp his breast plate and take it off. His lashes fly up, and the brilliant dark eyes are on you.

The wound is wide, the blade ran between the ribs, the lung is punctured. He coughs, and a trickle of red blood runs out of the corner of his lips. You grab your scarf and press it into his side. Your hands are instantly covered in his blood, soaking the fabric and running between your fingers. "Alfirin, are you safe?" You nod, and from the corner of your eye you notice the movement and see the King standing a few steps away, leaning heavily on his sword. The Dwarven captain approaches him, undoubtedly to address the King's injury, but he gestures him away. The King's face is grave. He knows enough of the wounds to know that the one the Gondorian has sustained is fatal.

Amrod's elegant hand flies up, and the long fingers brush your cheek. "Do not cry, Alfirin, it is over… You are safe..." You angrily wipe the tears off your cheeks. "Please, Amrod..." You are not sure what you are asking for.

He winces in pain and then tries to focus on your face. "Judging by your face, I am not going to make it..." "Nonsense," you glare at him, "you will be alright… I will fix it..." He chuckles and coughs again, "And how are you going to do it, my flower?"

"Use your magic, Zundushinh," the King's low voice makes you look at him. His lips are pressed in a stern line, jaws tense. "Do what you did for me, heal him." Your eyes lock for a second, and your lips twist. His eyes are momentarily warmer, and you nod gratefully.

Keeping one hand on his wounds, you stroke Amrod's face with another. A bright red smear of blood is left on his cheek, and you painfully bite into your bottom lip. You will the golden glow to rush into your hand, and you push your magic into the Godnorian's body.

You do not know how much you have left. Years ago you could heal and wound with it, though having very little control over it, the magic seemingly protecting you by its own will. You thought all of it had been spent on saving the King's life on the swamps ten years ago, and then the terrifying glowing fury was back when you were attacked expecting your son.

You close your eyes and take a deep breath in. And then you look at the noble features of the Gondorian, pale and bleak. You think of the mischievous warm smile, perpetual laughter dancing in his remarkable chestnut coloured eyes, about his gentle, passionate lips, his warm strong arms wrapped around you, always there to support you when you would slip, of the unpronounced words of love trembling on his lips.

The magic does not come. It is fighting you, resisting, stubbornly curls up in your hands, and does not spill in the weakening body of the Gondorian. You bite into your lips harder, metal taste in your mouth, but you fail. Another violent cough shakes his body, and the bloodied foam is on his lips.

"No, please, no, it has to work..." You do not know whom to ask for help, "Thorin! It is not working! It is there but it does not work!" You sob and lower your eyes on Amrod again. His lashes flutter, and he gives you a small soft smile.

"Do not blame yourself , Alfirin, you cannot command your heart..." You fall on his body and weep. It all becomes clear now. The faint dizziness when he entered that inn, your magic rejecting him, shielding you from him, protecting your love to the King. It is always him, Thorin, son of Thrain, your husband, your heart, your King, only for him, the first sparkle in your fingers to catch his attention, the golden glow to heal his body, the terrifying wave tearing a warg assailant apart to save his unborn son…

Amrod's hand lies on the back of your head. "There were eight of them…" His voice is quiet and you lift your head, "They were just boys, I led them into a scouting raid… The mistake was not mine, but they all died… And I left Ithilien, the war was not for me any more..." Tears run down his cheeks, "But I am a soldier, Alfirin, and I am dying for a King. It is only fair… Do not blame yourself, it is not for you, it is my duty… It is how it is to be..."

You shake your head, "It is not..." "Do not cry, my Queen..." He tries to smile, but his consciousness is slipping, and his lips are white… You sob, pressing his hand to your lips. Suddenly his eyes open wide and he looks at you, "Alfirin..."

"No… no..." You are rocking back and forth, his hand pressed between your palms and to your heart. For a second his face is surprised, innocent, that of a child, eyes wide open, and he sees you for the last time. "It is not how it was to be, Alfirin… My love... I saw them..." His pupils dilate, and his heart stops. The world freezes in the unperceivable pain, his bright merry spirit, his _fëar _leaves Arda, and you scream into the night sky.

You cry for a long time, and the King touches your shoulder with his palm and leaves. The camp is being cleaned of the Orc bodies, a healer from the Northmen attends to the wounded, some of them standing a few feet to the side, Northmen mourning their captain, Dwarves honouring a fallen warrior, but no one dares to approach you.

You are growing weaker, blood seeping from the wound in your shoulder, and after a while King comes to you. He picks you up, and Amrod's hand slips out of yours. You close your eyes, and let the healer bandage you. You are numb and unresponsive. The King wraps his cloak around you, and you fall into half sleep, half unconsciousness for a few hours. When you open your eyes, the day is bright, unexpected sunlight is flooding the clearing.

They have built the funeral pyres for the fallen, both Men and Dwarves. The surviving Dwarven guards have decided to go against the traditions of their people, and let their slayed warriors share the fate of their incidental brothers in arms. You wash your face in the stream, and all the company stands in front of the wood piles built under the bodies of the fallen.

The Northmen sing their funeral song, Dwarves theirs, and the wood is lit up simultaneously. The King is standing near you, his hand an inch away from yours, but he does not touch you. You are calm, tears silently rolling down your face.

Afterwards, after an hour of rest, the company is ready for marching on. The King and several more warriors require assistance, but he clenches the long handle of his battle ax in his hand and orders the warrior to start walking. No one argues.

You get up from the ground and face the lieutenant of the Northmen guard. He bestows you a low bow. "My Queen, we opened the captain's rucksack and decided this belongs to you. It would be the honour for us if you were to accept it." He hands you a sachet, and you take it.

You open it, and three objects fall out on your palm. A small portrait, a woman with Amrod's eyes and grey hair, noble Gondorian face, traditional Ithilien dress. A cloak clasp, you have not seen him without it, decorated with the carving of the White Tree of Gondor. And a small figurine of a kitten carved out of an ash wood branch he picked up on one of your long walks in the woods surrounding the inn at the approaches to the Misty Mountains.

The world sways and disappears behind the veil of your tears. You feel the heavy hand of the King Under the Mountain on your shoulder, and you turn and press your face into his shoulder. "I am sorry, my heart, I truly am." You take a shuddering breath in and shake your head. No words are required, and no words can help.

You step away from the King, and he nods. The company starts walking towards the dark outline of Mirkwood at the horizon.

THE END


End file.
